


home is wherever i'm with you

by merricats_sugarbowl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, BAMF Clarke, Character Death, Eventual Clarke Griffin/Lexa, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, It's a zombie au though what did you expect, M/M, Med Student Clarke, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Protective Lexa, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7788214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricats_sugarbowl/pseuds/merricats_sugarbowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s one thing to know that humans are adaptable. It’s another to see it happen, or to have it happen to you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The thing is, when the dead rise from their graves, you get pretty damn good at adapting.</i>
</p><p>It's been months since the dead rose from their graves and society went to hell, and it's finally starting to take its toll on Clarke. When a radio broadcast reveals that there's safety at Mount Weather, she and her group immediately fix on it as the next step in their plan for survival.</p><p>Meanwhile, Lexa's carved out a good life for herself and her group at Camp Polis, but their safety is threatened by a rival group that constantly steals their supplies. Bringing Nia and her people to justice is Lexa's number one priority; that, and the ever-growing number of missing people who've sought help at Mount Weather and failed to return.</p><p>When Clarke and Lexa meet by chance, everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what happens when I re-watch the Walking Dead while reading the Walking Dead comics and playing the Telltale game. A Clexa zombie au! Because I'm sure tons of these don't already exist, right?
> 
> This is intended as a multi-chapter fic with POV alternating between Lexa and Clarke. I've got the first few chapters written and the rest planned, so I don't see myself abandoning this one mid-fic. There will be character death in this one - it's a zombie au, everybody surviving doesn't exactly make sense - but I don't foresee any MAJOR character deaths. Probably. Cough. The title, by the way, is taken from "Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes.
> 
> Anyway, onto the fic!

The thing Clarke misses most is showers.

She never appreciated them, back before the world went to shit. There was always too much for her to do to really appreciate a nice, relaxing shower — standing underneath the hot spray felt like a waste of time, time that could be better spent on homework or sketching or working. She would race through the routine every morning, challenging herself to beat her time for shampooing her hair, to shave her legs in less than a minute without leaving them covered in nicks. She got good at cutting her showers down. The last one she remembers was three minutes long.

Now, though, she’d give just about anything to be able to step into a nice, hot shower and stay inside until the steam and the water pruned her skin.

“You still with me, Princess?”

Finn’s voice cuts across the aisle of the pharmacy, low and careless on the surface, but there’s an undercurrent of worry there. Zoning out is dangerous, especially away from camp, and Clarke’s done just that — her eyes have been drawn to an overturned bottle of pomegranate shower gel, spilling bright orange liquid onto the shelf that it sat on, back when things made sense. She shakes her head, clearing her thoughts of showers and steam and things long ago, and meets Finn’s gaze with steady eyes.

“I’m with you,” she says, slipping her rucksack from her shoulders. “Come on, let’s hurry.”

The pharmacy they’re standing in isn’t the only one in the city, but it’s the biggest. It’s where Clarke’s family would get their prescriptions, where they would develop vacation photographs before the advent of the digital age, where Clarke came at the age of eleven, red-cheeked and sweating, to get her first package of sanitary towels.

Another thing that Clarke misses; feminine hygiene products.

The store is mostly empty now, but they’ve come in search of supplies anyway, because things are running low at camp. The entire city is running low, every store broken and raided, houses standing vacant with smashed windows and doors hanging off the hinges, gardens overgrown and rustling with flies and vermin. They’re going to have to move on soon. They’ve bled Clarke’s hometown dry just trying to survive.

Clarke and Finn are here for medicine, mostly, though the chances of finding any are slim to none. Anything else that they might find — ammunition, food — is a bonus. There are other groups scouting the other stores in the area, but it’s just the two of them in here, moving in tandem among the silent aisles and empty shelves, hoping to stumble upon some kind of treasure.

They don’t find much, though neither of them are surprised. A battered bottle of aspirin, caught in the gap between one shelf and the next; a few bottles of gummy vitamins; a box of protein bars that might last a day or two back at camp, shared among the group. They load their loot into Clarke’s rucksack and then emerge into the sunlight, careful not to make too much noise.

Most of the others are still looking, but Octavia and Bellamy are already at the meeting point, the bronze statue in the centre of the main square that used to be the city’s pride and joy. Now it’s battered and broken, stained with blood and brain matter. Corpses litter the ground around it, but Clarke doesn’t bat an eye at them as she and Finn approach. These days, the sight is ordinary.

“Any luck?” she asks, but Octavia and Bellamy shake their heads glumly.

“This was all we could find,” Octavia says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a crumpled, half-empty packet of AA batteries. “Hardware store was a bust. I figured as much, but I was hoping there’d be something left.”

“Nothing’s left,” Bellamy says, sounding defeated. “We’ve ripped every part of this city apart, there’s nothing else to take. We have to move on, sooner rather than later. It’s gonna start getting cold out here soon.”

He’s not wrong. The world turned upside down in the middle of summer, but summer’s end came a long time ago, and fall is starting to melt away, too. The trees are almost bare of leaves, and the nights come on quicker than they used to. Clarke thought that they would have found somewhere permanent to stay by now, somewhere safe, but they’re still holed up in that camp outside town, sleeping in tents and taking it in shifts to watch the perimeter. Tents aren’t going to be much use warding off the cold, but the city and its suburbs just aren’t safe anymore. They’d tried sleeping in houses before — after they lost the fifth member of their group, they decided that the outskirts of town were safer.

“Maybe the others found something,” Finn says, ever the optimist, but when Jasper and Monty return, they’re empty-handed as well, and all that Murphy and Miller have managed to find is a couple of old, threadbare blankets. Defeated, they start to make their way back to camp.

It’s been a long time since a supply run turned up anything good, so Clarke’s not too worried about letting anyone down. No one back at camp expected them to find anything; none of them will be surprised to be proven right. They’ll get by, anyway, for a few more days at least. There are people in their group who’ve proven themselves to be surprisingly adept hunters, and they’ve set up camp by a river with water that’s more or less fresh. They can survive, for a little while longer. The only thing they really need to worry about is the cold weather rolling in, and even then, maybe they can make it.

Humans are built to adapt; this is something that Clarke has always known. In the face of change, human beings adapt and survive in a way that most other species can’t — they change with the times. They learn to live in whatever conditions they’re presented with, and sometimes, they emerge on the other side as better, stronger people. Clarke has always known this, but it’s only in the last few months that she’s truly believed it. It’s one thing to know that humans are adaptable. It’s another to see it happen, or to have it happen to you.

The thing is, when the dead rise from their graves, you get pretty damn good at adapting.

It’s why Clarke doesn’t flinch when a corpse lurches out of the alleyway between a pizza place and a bank, skin rotting off of its face, dried blood matting its hair. It’s why she doesn’t hesitate before unsheathing the knife that she always carries at her waist now and plunging it into the person that isn’t a person anymore, before it can attack her or any of her companions. It’s why her stomach doesn’t turn when she yanks the knife out with a loud squelch and wipes the gunk off on her jeans.

“Good shot,” Murphy says, sounding impressed. Clarke spares him a withering glance — what she’s just done isn’t something for anyone to admire. She’s done it to survive, would do it again to survive, but she doesn’t want any praise for it. Certainly not from Murphy, who seems a little too recklessly happy at the fact that the world has ended. This is the kind of world that a guy like Murphy thrives in.

Before they move on, Clarke forces herself to look at the corpse’s face. She’s always afraid to look — not because she’s squeamish, or afraid of blood, but because she’s terrified of recognising one of them. She looks anyway. Whatever they are now, these things were people once, and she thinks that it’s the least she can do to remember their faces. She’s relieved to see that the corpse with the gaping knife wound in its head doesn’t bear even a passing resemblance to anyone that she knows.

Used to know.

“Wait up,” she calls softly to the group that have begun to trudge ahead.

She falls into step beside Bellamy, who gives her a sidelong glance, as if to check that she’s alright after killing the lurker. Over the past few weeks, they’ve become the default leaders of their group. It’s not because either of them had any desire to lead, but because they’re the only ones willing to make tough decisions, when it comes down to it all. While the others walk ahead, Bellamy veers closer to Clarke, speaking to her in a low tone.

“About what I said at the statue…”

“You’re right,” Clarke murmurs. “Look, I know you’re right, we need to move on, but we have to have somewhere to go first. We can’t just go wandering off without a destination. We’d be dead in days. You know that.”

“The city—”

“Is overrun. Come on, Bellamy, you know as well as I do that if it was safe to stay down there, we’d be there already. No one likes sleeping on the ground every night.”

He frowns. “The longer we wait, the harder it’s going to be.”

Clarke closes her eyes. “I know.”

They lapse into silence, and eventually Bellamy quickens his pace to walk by his sister’s side, leaving Clarke alone to take up the rear.

They reach camp just as darkness is beginning to fall. The makeshift fence surrounding their little tent city seems flimsier than it did when they left this afternoon, but Clarke tries not to linger on that thought as they make their way inside. Lanterns are already lit, flickering in tandem with the campfires set up in the centre of the camp. Clarke and the rest of the scouts head for the biggest one, which acts as the de facto town square. Some of the girls in the group are already seated around the fire, trying to warm themselves as a chill begins to permeate the air. Clarke counts them; Harper, Fox, Monroe. Monroe half-rises from her seat at the sight of them, but Octavia shakes her head before she can get her hopes up.

“City’s sucked dry,” she says, settling herself on one of the logs beside Fox. “We didn’t find much. I don’t think there’s any point in going back.”

Clarke empties her rucksack of the meagre offerings from the pharmacy; Miller hands out the threadbare blankets.

“Where are the others?” Bellamy asks, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Octavia’s log and putting his hands close to the fire for warmth. Fox inclines her head slightly towards the biggest of the tents, the one that’s become a sort of headquarters.

“Raven and Wick are trying to get the radio working. They said to send Monty in when you guys got back.”

Monty bites his lip and heads for the tent, though he doesn’t look hopeful. Clarke can hardly blame him. They’ve been trying to get the radio to work for weeks, but so far, there’s been nothing but static. Raven and Wick keep trying, though. None of them are ready to believe that it’s over yet. They’re still waiting for someone to rescue them.

Clarke shakes her head like she’s trying to get water out of her ears. “Wells?” she asks.

“In his tent,” Harper says. “He said he’d take first watch tonight, so he’s going to get some shut-eye now.” She hesitates. “He doesn’t seem like he’s doing so good, Clarke.”

Clarke nods, unsurprised. Humans adapt, but Wells has always been gentle — too gentle for this new world of death and blood and violence. He's Murphy's antithesis; he can’t stomach it the way that the rest of them can.

Clarke’s still not sure if that’s a problem with Wells, or with the rest of the group.

“He’ll be alright,” she says, but her words sound unconvincing even to her own ears. The others don’t mention it; Monroe is the one to change the subject, telling the scouting groups about how tonight’s hunt went. Clarke closes her eyes and listens, and for a moment, she can pretend that it’s the old days. They’re a group of friends out camping for the night. In the morning, they’ll go back to their houses in the suburbs, to their part-time jobs at coffee shops and bookstores, to their on-off relationships with the nice neighbour boy who blushes every time they kiss.

It’s just for a moment, and then Clarke remembers that there are no houses anymore, that part-time jobs aren’t really a necessity when the worldwide economy has collapsed, and that the nice neighbour boy died screaming with a dead man’s jaws clamped around his throat.

As night falls over the campsite like a blanket, Fox starts cooking the squirrels that Monroe and Harper brought back from their hunt tonight. Bellamy passes around small cups of river water. Octavia heads for the tent where Raven, Wick and Monty are working on the radio, and Clarke goes to rouse Wells from his nap. Soon, they’re all seated around the big fire, a rag-tag bunch of survivors devouring roasted squirrel as though it’s the greatest meal they’ve ever eaten in their lives.

Clarke counts them while she eats, taking a silent inventory of her companions; on one log, there’s Fox, with her soft voice and her expressive eyes; Monroe, tough as nails; Harper, smart as a whip and ready to do whatever it takes to survive. The Blake siblings, Octavia and Bellamy, sitting side-by-side on the ground now and trading playful jabs over dinner. Jasper and Monty, who started out shaky and nervous, but have grown more capable than any of them expected. Miller, quiet and brooding most of the time, but snarky whenever he deigns to open his mouth. Raven, the engineering prodigy who’s determined to contact other survivors; Wick, determined to help with whatever he can. Finn, an old flame who’s proven himself a close ally, and Wells, her best friend since childhood. Even Murphy, sitting further apart from the rest of the group and holding onto his portion of squirrel as though someone’s going to rip it away from him.

Most of these people were strangers to her until the world went to hell, but they’re her family now. She’ll do anything to protect them.

When the meal is finished, a few of the group peel away. Murphy heads for the tent that he shares with Miller, Raven commandeers Wick and Monty to go work on the radio some more, and Wells excuses himself to start patrolling the perimeter. When the group sitting around the campfire is smaller, Bellamy looks across the flames to meet Clarke’s eyes, and she knows what he’s going to say.

“We need to talk about leaving,” he says, and it’s only the solemnity in his tone that stops the others from disagreeing outright. “It’s already started getting colder. We can’t stay here when winter hits or we’ll freeze to death. We need shelter — real shelter, not canvas and cloth. If we leave in the next few days, we have a decent shot at finding somewhere in time. If we don’t, then I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

There’s a rush of voices speaking over one another, each trying to have their say, until finally, Octavia’s voice rises above the others.

“Bell’s right,” she says. “Even if the cold wasn’t coming, we’re running out of supplies. I know we don’t want to think about leaving, but it’s time that we faced reality. The city is dead. There’s nothing left for us here. It’s time to go.”

“Go where?” Miller asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Anywhere,” Bellamy says. “We could find a housing development or an apartment complex — anything. Anything’s got to be better than this.”

Silence falls over the group, and Clarke knows what they’re all thinking. The last time they tried houses, they lost five of their own. The suburbs of her hometown are overrun with the dead; there’s nothing for them there. But maybe it’s different elsewhere.

“There could be other survivors,” Jasper says, breaking the silence. “I mean, there could be, right? We can’t be the only ones left.”

It’s something that Clarke’s thought about almost constantly in the past few months. Jasper’s right. Surely there are others out there who’ve managed to scrape by like they have. Raven's been messing with the radios for weeks for news of others, but they’ve never actually _tried_ to find anyone else. Maybe it’s time that that changed.

“Clarke?”

It’s Bellamy, looking at her with that steady gaze, waiting for her opinion.

“What I said earlier still stands,” she says. “I think you’re right, we should leave. _But_ ,” she adds quickly, before Bellamy can respond, “not until we know where we’re going. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. We need a plan and a time-frame. We’re not just going to abandon camp if we’ve got nowhere else to go.”

The rush of voices returns, each of them offering suggestions on where to go. Clarke’s head is starting to hurt with all of the chatter, so she’s more than a little relieved when Monty emerges from the big tent and approaches the campfire, looking a little shell-shocked. He tries to speak, but he can’t be heard over the voices of the others. It’s Miller who notices him standing there, trying in vain to get everyone’s attention, and it’s Miller who raises his voice above the crowd.

“Shut up,” he says loudly, and then, softer, “Monty?”

“It’s working,” Monty says, breathless. “The radio — it’s working.”

Clarke blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Just come,” Monty urges, and then he disappears, ducking back into the tent while the rest of them stare, open-mouthed. There’s a beat, and then they’re all scrambling to follow, nearly tripping over one another in their haste to get inside.

There’s not much inside the tent, just a table and a couple of mismatched stools that Clarke and the others brought back from trips into town. Raven and Wick are sitting on the stools; in Raven’s hands is the radio, small and silver, and amazingly, not crackling with static. Instead, the speaker emits a low hum of voices, though the words are indistinguishable. Raven looks up at the interruption and then back down at the radio, concentration furrowing her brow.

“I’ve got it,” she says, that familiar determination colouring her words. “It’s working, I just can’t get the volume up. I think it’s the batteries.” She hits the radio, frustrated, and lets out a sigh. “There’s not enough juice. We got it to pick up a signal, but we can’t hear the damn thing.”

“Batteries?” Octavia says, fumbling in her pocket. “Hang on, I — here!”

Grinning, she presses the batteries she scavenged from the hardware store into Raven’s hands, earning a look of bafflement in response.

“I don’t even want to know how you have these,” Raven mutters while she switches out the batteries, “because I’m afraid that’s going to jinx it. Just a second…” She presses the batteries into place, replaces the cover of the battery compartment, and then twists the volume dial. After a quick crackling noise, the voices from before return, except now, they’re clearer.

 _THIS IS A NOTICE TO SURVIVORS OF THE CRISIS_ , the speaker crackles.

“The crisis,” Miller repeats, sardonic. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Someone shushes him.

_YOU ARE NOT ALONE._

Jasper inhales audibly.

 _MOUNT WEATHER SAFE ZONE. OPEN TO ALL WHO SEEK REFUGE FROM THE DEAD_. There’s a pause, followed by coordinates, and then another pause before the message repeats itself. Hardly able to believe what she’s just heard, Clarke searches out Bellamy’s eyes, finding them lit with hope for the first time in weeks.

A safe zone. At last, they have somewhere to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lexa's camp faces the threat of a rival group and one of their members goes missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to work out a post schedule for this and _think_ I've settled on twice a week, so chapter 3 should be coming on Tuesday, probably. Thanks to everyone who's shown an interest in this so far, you're all great  <3

She lurks back against the tree line, hand clenched tightly around the handle of her knife as the deer picks its way towards her. This is the first deer she’s seen in weeks — she thought she was dreaming when she first saw its tawny hide, but it’s just as real as she is. It’s going to make a great dinner for her people.

Lexa tightens her grip around her knife, and waits.

It’s been a long time since she took down anything this big, especially with nothing in her arsenal but her bare hands and a blade that has, admittedly, grown dull over the past few weeks. Usually, she’s more prepared, but she happened on the deer tracks by accident, and the opportunity was too good to pass up. The dullness of her blade might be a problem; still keeping her gaze trained on the deer, she runs her finger along the knife’s edge, frowning at the bead of bright scarlet blood that takes just a moment too long to appear. By now, she knows how vital it is to keep her weapons in good condition. Letting her blade grow dull means that she’s neglected her most important asset. She’ll have to sharpen it when she gets back to camp.

For now, though, there’s the deer. It’s finally close enough that Lexa feels comfortable creeping crowd and shortening the distance between them. She’s careful with the placement of her feet, avoiding the fallen branches that litter the ground around her. The last thing she needs is to spook the deer and send it running through the woods — not only would she lose a meal for her and her people, but it would almost certainly bring the dead down upon her as well. It’s not that she can’t handle that, if it comes to it, but she’d really rather not have to.

The deer takes another tentative step towards her hiding place. It’s time; Lexa makes her move. She emerges from behind a withered tree, raising her knife high above her head, and before the deer has a chance to react to the threat in its midst, she throws herself at it and sinks the blade into its neck. The skin is soft and fleshy, the blood that spurts from the wound bright and glistening. Gripping the deer by the rapidly reddening fur at its neck, she yanks out the knife and draws a slash along the throat, ending it quickly, as merciful a death as she can muster under the circumstances. There’s the faintest whimper and then the animal stops struggling against her grasp. Its body slackens, its legs buckling beneath it, and then it crumples to the ground at Lexa’s feet.

Breathing heavily, Lexa wipes the blood from her knife and draws the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead, only dimly registering the fact that she’s just smeared the animal’s blood above her brows in the process.

Before — Lexa thinks of the old days as “Before,” capital B — she might have felt guilty about slitting Bambi’s throat. Now, she’s already salivating at the thought of how the meat will taste once it’s cooked.

Knife cleaned, she drags the deer carcass closer to the tree line where she watched it just a few moments before. She leans heavily against the tree that served as her hiding place, closes her eyes and then slides down to sit on the ground and wait for Lincoln and Anya to get here. She can’t drag the deer all the way back to camp by herself — for now, all there is for her to do is sit tight and wait for help to arrive.

She doesn’t have to wait long. Barely minutes after her takedown of the deer, she hears the familiar crunch of Anya’s boots on the fallen leaves that litter the forest floor. She opens her eyes almost lazily, finding Anya and Lincoln standing before her, Anya’s eyes fixed not on her, but on the fallen deer.

“Fuck me,” Anya breathes, eloquent as ever. “You actually did it.”

Lexa grins. “What, you doubted me?”

She holds out a hand expectantly and Anya takes it, hefting her to her feet without once taking her eyes off the deer. She looks as though she’s ready to drop to her knees and start eating, fur and raw flash be damned. Lexa can hardly blame her. It’s been weeks since they’ve eaten anything decent. Mostly, they’ve been surviving on canned goods, squirrels and other pests that live around their camp. Knowing that they’ll be eating deer later feels like winning the lottery. Before, hunting a deer was nothing special. Now — the thinks of the word with a capital N — it’s everything.

Behind Anya, Lincoln is also staring at the animal, though not with the same rapt, hungry attention. Lexa sees the concentration in his gaze and knows that he’s trying to think of the best way to haul it home. She waits, watching the cogs turn in his head, until at last he gives a brief nod, as though he’s agreeing with his own inner monologue.

“We should clean it here,” he says. “One of us can go back to camp and get tarps or bags or something that we can use to wrap the meat. No point hauling it through the forest whole when we can butcher it just as well here.”

He says it as if his biggest concern is Lexa and Anya not being strong enough to drag the deer back whole, and although that might be an issue, Lexa knows that that’s not the real reason for Lincoln’s shrewd suggestion. Dragging the deer’s body through the woods would be noisy as well as bloody, and if they were attacked as they made their way home, it would be near impossible to fight off the dead amid the thickets of trees. Cutting the deer open here in the clearing is risky too, but at least here, there’s space to defend themselves if things go awry. Both Lexa and Anya voice their agreement, and suddenly, things are in motion.

Anya volunteers to go back to camp, promising to return with the things they need to wrap the meat up and get it home safely, and extra hands to help out, if she can find any. As her footsteps retreat into the trees, Lincoln and Lexa get down to the gory business of stripping the carcass for its meat.

Lexa wasn’t squeamish Before, wasn’t the girly type, but she still never would have been caught dead up to her elbows in deer guts, either. Now, though, butchering is second nature to her — she hardly has to look at her knife as it slips and slices through fur and flesh. She doesn’t flinch at the sharp twang that rings in her ears when the blade glances off bone, and she isn’t fazed by the metallic scent of blood that infiltrates her nostrils as she works. Oddly enough, there’s something calming in the work. It’s methodical, easy.

They’re quiet at first, working together silently, but when the time comes to start sectioning the meat, Lincoln pauses and raises his head, his dark eyes meeting Lexa’s green ones.

“This was impressive,” he says, eyes flickering downwards just briefly at the torn-open body of the creature who, just a little while ago, had been the Disneyfied personification of purity and innocence. “This thing is almost as big as you. I can’t believe you took it down by yourself, with just a knife.”

Lexa raises her shoulders in a non-committal half-shrug. She’s small, sure, but what Lincoln and the others don’t realise is that size doesn’t necessarily equal strength. It certainly doesn’t equal capability.

“It’s all about cunning,” she says, wiping entrails from her blade onto a nearby leaf and then returning to the methodical task of slicing at the deer’s flank. “You don’t have to be the biggest, or the strongest, or even the fastest to be a good hunter. You just have to know when the best moment is to strike.”

To punctuate her point, she makes a stabbing motion with her knife. Lincoln looks at her for a long moment, something like admiration crossing his features. They lapse into silence once again, and Lexa thinks that that will be the end of it, until she feels Lincoln’s eyes on her once again. She’s not prepared for the question that leaves his lips.

“What were you? Before?”

He says it the way she thinks it. Before, capital B. In other words, a lifetime ago.

A lifetime ago, Lexa was a business student at Polis University. She was top of her class, had an academic scholarship, and a promising internship lined up for after graduation. She was the kind of girl who wore oversized sweaters and drank herbal tea, who wore glasses that were constantly slipping down her nose, who sat in cafes reading Austen and Dickens and thought that television rotted your brain. The girl that Lexa was Before would not recognise the girl that Lexa is Now. Her oversized sweaters are gone, replaced with a rotation of faded t-shirts, each more blood-stained than the last, and a leather jacket that she took from a corpse when the cold weather started to make itself known. Her skin, once tanned and smooth, is marred with cuts and bruises and stained with deer blood and guts.

No, Lexa would not recognise herself now. She’s had to become someone else just to survive.

She closes her eyes, and when she replies to Lincoln, her voice is full of acid. “Does it matter?”

They complete the rest of their task in silence, but while the quiet before was pleasant, this time, it feels stifling. Lexa can feel Lincoln’s eyes on her while she works. She’s grateful when Anya finally returns with Indra and Nyko in tow, and she’s more grateful still when they start heading for home. Darkness is starting to fall, and the last thing that Lexa wants is for them to be stuck out in the woods with no light to guide the way home and bags upon bags of fresh meat signalling their location to every biter in a three mile radius. They move quickly, and it’s not long before camp is in sight.

It’s Indra and Nyko who organise the cooking of the meat, and Anya who offers to let the rest of the group know that there's going to be food at the mess hall. Lexa’s job ended the moment she sliced the last piece of flesh from the deer’s body — the more domestic tasks are left to others. Knowing that it will be some time before the food is ready, Lexa heads for the low building that serves as the main building of their camp.

Before, when this place was a kid’s summer camp instead of a makeshift town for survivors of undead hordes, this building was the main hall. Now, it acts as their town hall, for lack of a better word, and it’s where Lexa makes most of the group’s decisions.

She’s still not entirely sure how she ended up presiding over a ragtag bunch of survivors — many of whom are older than her, and some of whom have actual, real world experiences of being leaders — but the “why” or the “how” don’t really matter anymore. One way or another, it’s become Lexa’s job to protect these people, and she does it well.

A sly voice at the back of her mind whispers sometimes that the reason she strives so hard to protect these people is because she could’t protect Costia, but she pushes those thoughts away. These people — her people — need a leader. That’s why she’s doing this, not some twisted manifestation of survivor’s guilt.

Titus is already in the hall when she arrives, pacing back and forth across the dull grey carpet with a pensive look on his face, a look that can only mean one thing. Something bad has happened, and Lexa’s going to have to be the one to deal with it. Titus’s head jolts up at her entrance and his brow furrows; not a smile of greeting, but an expression of concern that doesn’t do much to alleviate her suspicions about whatever it is that’s happened. Slowly, the feeling of contentment that washed over her when she killed the deer vanishes, replaced with a cold one of uncertainty and irritation. She sighs and crosses the room to lean against the wall.

“Well, Titus. What is it now?”

Before, Titus was a priest who was excommunicated — at least, this is Lexa’s favourite of the numerous theories floating around camp about his past. She likes to picture him in vestments, handing out Communion and wine. It seems fitting, somehow. Truth be told, she doesn’t know much about Titus’s real past. He plays his cards close to his chest, just like she does. And it doesn’t matter what he was Before, anyway. Now, he’s one of her most trusted allies, and that’s what’s important.

“Another theft,” Titus tells her. “We lost a good portion of our canned goods and a case of bottled water.”

Lexa’s temper flares. “Nia,” she says, her voice a low growl.

Nia’s group are settled in the country club, a few miles up the road from Lexa’s camp, and they’re constantly butting heads. When everything first happened, Lexa suggested uniting the two groups, but Nia refused. Since then, she’s been nothing but a constant thorn in Lexa’s side. This isn’t the first time that they’ve breached Lexa’s walls — every few weeks, Nia’s people raid the precious stash of supplies that Lexa and her companions risk their lives to obtain. Lexa’s getting sick of it.

“That seems to be the most likely possibility,” Titus says, inclining his head slightly in agreement.

“We have to do something,” Lexa says, rubbing her temples. She can feel a headache coming on. Painkillers are precious, these days; she’ll just have to deal with the ache. “This is getting out of hand, damn it. We’re not going to last through the winter if that bitch keeps raiding our stores.”

There’s the briefest silence, and when Lexa looks at Titus, she can see hesitation written all over his features, which can mean only one thing. More bad news. She doesn’t press the matter, just watches and waits, until finally, he clears his throat.

“There’s more.”

“Go on.”

“Echo is missing.”

Echo is a girl who’s just a couple of years older than Lexa, who often seems far too eager to prove herself in this new world that they’ve found themselves in. She’s a capable fighter and hunter, and a good asset to the group, but people like her are dangerous, too. Sometimes, Lexa gets the feeling that Echo cares more about proving that she can survive than actually surviving. Since day one, Lexa’s thought that it would get her killed, but she’d hoped that she would be proven wrong.

“Biters?” she guesses. It’s the most likely explanation, but Titus shakes his head.

“She went to the mountain.”

Lexa’s eyes fall shut. “Damn it.”

Echo’s not the first to follow the radio signal from Mount Weather, the broadcast that promises safe heaven from the dead. Lexa herself commissioned a search party when they first picked up the transmission; when days passed with no sign of their return, it was Lexa who sent a second group to go and bring them back. It was only after the third attempt that she gave up on the mountain as a lost cause. Clearly, it wasn’t the safe haven that it claimed to be. She advised her people to stay away from it, and mostly, they did. But hope is a dangerous thing, and every time they picked up the signal, people started to wonder if they just hadn’t found the right way to safety. Every now and then, someone like Echo got it into their heads to play saviour and find a way into the mountain.

It upsets Lexa more than she’d care to admit.

“There have already been volunteers to search for her,” Titus says, watching Lexa’s face carefully. “I could arrange for a party to leave at first light.”

Lexa frowns. She likes Echo — reckless nature aside, she’s a valuable member of their group, and a good friend besides that. Despite the bleakness of their situation, she’s always ready with a smile and a kind word. Lexa would like to search for her, to bring her home to camp. But no one comes home from the mountain. And if they send others out to search for her, then they’re sending them to their deaths.

“No,” she says firmly. “No, this has to end here. We need to make it clear that we’re not going after anybody who tries to make it to Mount Weather. That place is dangerous. I won’t lose any more people to it. We can’t afford to.”

Titus nods slowly. “And what should we tell them about Echo?”

“The truth. That she went to the mountain against our advice, and that we’re not risking anybody else’s lives looking for her.” She meets Titus’s eyes, weary. “She made her choice, Titus. She knew that it was dangerous and she went anyway. I’ve told her time and time again—” She stops herself, sighing. “I can’t help someone who isn’t willing to help themselves. She knew that we wouldn’t go looking for her. She took the chance, and I’m not letting anyone else pay the price for her.”

“Maybe she’ll come back,” Titus says, but there’s no optimism in his voice.

“She won’t,” Lexa says softly. Sensing the melancholy in her tone, Titus clears his throat again.

“What do you intend to do about Nia?”

Lexa thinks for a moment. “We’ll post more guards around the perimeter,” she says decisively. “I’ll take on some extra shifts, too. Anyone unfamiliar who tries to enter camp gets brought to me for interrogation. If they’re Nia’s people…” She trails off, biting her lip. “Well. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Is that everything, Titus?”

He nods his assent. “For now.”

Lexa slips off of the counter. “Good. That’s about all that I can handle. Dinner should be ready by now, anyway.”

“Squirrel?”

“Deer,” she replies, some of her good mood returning at the flash of surprised pleasure on his face. “I’d hurry, if I were you. Anya was eyeing that thing like it was made of diamonds.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes Clarke's group as they make plans to set out for Mount Weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is the first instance of character death. Proceed with caution, dears ^_^
> 
> The next chapter is looking like the one where Clarke and Lexa will meet, in case anyone's wondering why they haven't yet. Should be up on Saturday!

Mount Weather, Clarke knows, is the site of some sort of medical research facility. It was designed to be entirely self-sufficient, with housing for its researchers, greenhouses and generators, its own dam that kept it separate from the city. She knows this because it was a source of massive controversy when it was first built — she was just a child, but she remembers how the people in her hometown questioned the necessity of its self-sufficiency, arguing that there was something suspect about researchers who were so determined to live apart from the outside world. For months after the compound’s completion, rumours abounded about what the scientists were doing inside, dissipating only when the construction of a new garbage dump on the outskirts of town was proposed. They had a new cause to fight against, so they forgot all about the scientists in Mount Weather.

Clarke forgot about them, too. It’s strange to think that they’ve been here all this time; that maybe the scientists are the ones who created the safe zone, that maybe they’re working on a cure. Clarke tries not to hope too much, these days, because hope is dangerous, but she can’t help but think that this might be the beginning of the end. Maybe the nightmare is almost over. Once they make it to the mountain, maybe she can finally rest, but until then, she has a group to lead, and she can tell just from looking at them that optimism is beginning to make them giddy. That won’t do. The only way to survive in this new world, like it or not, is a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Is it real?” Harper murmurs, her eyes wide.

“It has to be,” Jasper says. The others are starting to mutter excitedly as well. “I knew we couldn’t be the only ones out here, I knew it. Maybe our parents—”

“Woah,” Clarke says, interrupting him. All eyes in the tent turn to her and silence falls. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, okay? We don’t have any solid evidence about Mount Weather yet. All we’ve got is a looping radio broadcast.”

“Clarke’s right,” Miller says, and for once, Clarke is grateful for his pessimistic nature. “For all we know, the people who recorded this message are dead by now. We don’t know how long it’s been playing.”

Chatter breaks out in the tent again, and Clarke can sense a divide forming between her people — there are those who want to believe in the broadcast, even though it’s comparatively flimsy evidence that a safe zone exists, and then there are those like Miller and herself, who want to approach the situation cautiously. Clarke can see both sides of the argument, but she knows that if they’re going to have a chance of making it to Mount Weather at all, their vision can’t be clouded by hope.

They have to be realistic. It’s the only way.

“ _Enough_!” Clarke says, raising her voice when the noise grows too much to bear. “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t go — we all agree that it’s time we moved on, and Mount Weather is as good a place as any to start looking for shelter for the winter. But we have to be level-headed about this.” She looks around the tent, her gaze serious, lingering on those who seem most hopeful.They’re the ones that need to hear this the most. “There’s a chance that when we get there, we won’t find any other survivors. We have to prepare ourselves for that possibility.”

Silence, except for the radio, still repeating its message about the safe zone. And then, from Jasper: “But there could be others.”

“Yes,” Clarke agrees. “But we shouldn’t assume that there are. There’s no point in getting our hopes up, Jasper, not before we’ve even made it there.”

Bellamy nods slowly. “Expect the worst,” he says, “and then whatever we find when we get there, at least we won’t be disappointed.”

“Exactly.”

“How far away is Mount Weather, exactly?” Monty puts in, his brow furrowed. “Can we even make it there?”

“It’s not far,” Raven says. “I mean, it’s on the very edge of town. Maybe an hour by car — but we’re gonna have to go on foot, obviously. And that’s not counting those _things_. We’re going to have to move slowly so we don’t draw attention to ourselves, and we’re going to have to defend ourselves against whatever we run into. Plus we’ll need to take breaks, rest…” She trails off, biting her lip. “I figure that it’s about a day’s walk, at least. It can be done, but it’s going to be dangerous. There’s a few places that we can rest on the way, a summer camp, a country club. It’s shelter, at least.”

“A day,” Bellamy repeats, excitement in his voice. “That’s… we could do that.”

A day’s trek across the city — it does sound doable, but Clarke worries that the others are getting ahead of themselves. Most of them haven’t been down to the city since the initial outbreak. They’ve stayed here at camp where it’s safe, only venturing out to the woods and nearby lake to hunt, and there’s not enough of the dead out here to pose a significant threat. It’s different in the city, where there are lurkers everywhere you turn. Clarke and the scouts have grown accustomed to that; the others haven’t. Fox has never had to put one of them down. Even Harper and Monroe, in charge of hunting for food, have only had to deal with a lurker or two. How will they react when faced with a herd of the dead?

Before she can voice her concerns, the tent flap peels back to reveal Wells, concern written all over his face.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

Bellamy fills him in while the broadcast loops in the background, and Clarke thinks long and hard about how to get their entire group through the city intact. They can split into smaller groups; have the scouts pair up with the more inexperienced members of the camp, make sure that everyone has a gun and a weapon that they can use hand-to-hand, take watch shifts whenever they take breaks. There’s no way to eliminate all of the risks from the journey, but this way, maybe they can make it.

When Bellamy finishes speaking, however, Wells looks troubled.

“Do you really think all of us can make it?” he asks, eyes flicking to Clarke’s as he voices the concerns in her own head. “You guys have been out there — you know how to handle yourselves. The rest of us haven’t been in the city in months. How do you know we’d be able to defend ourselves?”

Wells is never afraid to say what he thinks, even when he knows it will make him unpopular; Clarke’s not surprised that he’s done the same now. Before anyone can respond, she says “Wells is right. We have to consider the more — inexperienced — people in the group.”

“Hey,” Monroe says hotly, “speak for yourself. I may not have killed as many lurkers as you, but I’m perfectly capable of handling myself out there.”

“I’m sure you are,” Clarke says, “but what if you _aren’t_ , Monroe? Do you really want to test that theory in the field just to prove a point?”

Bellamy’s frowning now, eyes fixed on Clarke accusingly. She knows what he’s thinking. She said that she agreed with the plan, and now here she is, throwing up obstacles. She doesn’t know how to make him understand that she’s just trying to do what’s best for the group; she wants them to get to Mount Weather, she wants more than anything to get them there and find that the safe zone really exists, but she doesn’t want to risk any more than they have to in getting there.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, warning. “We agreed—”

Before she can try to explain herself, a shout rings out through camp. Immediately, Clarke whips her gaze around the tent, counting. Everyone’s here — everyone except Murphy. She’s racing out of the tent a moment later, hand instinctively reaching for her knife. The others are hot on her heels, scrambling for their weapons as they head in the direction of Murphy’s tent and his screams.

Lurkers have breached the camp before, but they’ve never gotten far. Clarke and the others are too careful for that, or at least, that’s what she’s always thought. As she races to Murphy’s tent, she remembers how flimsy the fence had looked earlier when they returned from their supply run. Had they reinforced it this week? Added more wood and wire to protect against the wind that had picked up over the last few days? Had they bothered to check for weak points? She can’t remember.

At last, they reach Murphy, and Clarke is more relieved than she ever imagined she would be to find him holding his own against the dead. There are at least ten of them, more than have ever made it this far into camp, and they’re swarming the tent like ants. Murphy is standing amid the herd, brandishing a sharpened stick with a fierce look on his face that quickly turns to relief when he hears the others approaching.

“Took you long enough!” he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. “Knife?”

Finn tosses him the spare that he keeps on his belt and then things turn to a blur. Clarke is whirling through the herd, slicing and stabbing at any lurker that gets in her path as she fights her way to the fence to see what damage has been done. The others are dispatching the herd; Bellamy hacks at a rotting neck with his hatchet, Octavia brings her hammer crashing down on an undead skull, and even Monroe, to her credit, is taking them down.

Clarke spots the breach after a moment. It’s a single, small section of the fence that’s fallen, but more lurkers are piling in with every second that passes. If they don’t get a handle on this now, then camp will be overrun. Panic seizes at her chest, but she forces herself to remain calm, shouting for Wick and Miller to help.

“We need to fix the fence!” she says when they’re by her side. “Fix the fence, stop the lurkers, understand?”

Wick races back for the main tent, promising to return with supplies to mend the fence; meanwhile, Miller starts hefting the fence back into an upright position while Clarke takes out the lurkers still trying to climb over. Miller’s grunting with effort, his face strained and red as he tries to hold the fence against the mass of undead pressing against it.

“I don’t know how long I can hold this, Clarke,” he says through gritted teeth. Clarke drives her knife through a lurker’s eye and then looks over her shoulder, desperate.

“Finn! Help!”

Finn’s there within seconds, bloodstained and panting. Without a word, he shoves his shoulder against the fence, taking some of the burden for Miller. No matter what they do, there seems to be more lurkers — Octavia is fighting two at a time, Monty and Jasper are standing back-to-back as they dispatch others; and meanwhile, Fox is standing away from the fray, eyes wide and panicked, frozen to the spot with fear, and damn it, this is what Clarke was worried about. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t been killed, but if she keeps standing there, her luck is going to run out.

“Fox, you have to move,” Clarke shouts, and it’s like a spell’s been broken. Fox jerks to the side, reaching robotically for the knife at her waist. Her movements are unsteady, but at least she’s moving now, and Wells is suddenly by her side, ready to offer help. Behind them, Clarke can see Wick racing back to the group, and her shoulders sag with relief. They can do this. They can hold them off for just a little while longer.

Wick shoves his way through the crowd and dives to his knees by the fence, lining up a nail and a hammer before he’s even come to a full stop. Miller and Finn are still holding the boards up, but just barely. Clarke concentrates on keeping the area around them clear while they work. Wick drops his hammer and gets to his feet once the fence is standing by itself.

“That should hold,” he says, though he looks uncertain.

“Good,” Clarke says, breathing heavily, “now pick up that hammer and get back to work.”

She punctuates her words with a sharp stab in the temporal lobe of the nearest lurker to her. There’s still a mass of them to deal with, the ones who made it over the fence. Dispatching them is messy business, but they’ve got it under control now. With no others piling in, they should be able to contain the disaster.

That’s what Clarke thinks. She should be right.

But as the herd thins, a piercing scream rings through the air, and Clarke whirls around just in time to see Wells sinking to his knees, blood spurting out of his throat like a pressure hose. It’s Clarke’s turn to freeze, her breath catching as she watches her best friend’s eyes widen with horror, his hands scrabbling at his throat in a vain attempt to stay the bleeding. Clarke’s by his side in seconds; she dispatches the lurker that bit him without missing a beat, and then she’s on her knees, hands on Wells’s shoulders. Around her, the fighting continues, but she’s focused only on Wells.

He makes a noise like he’s trying to say her name, but the wound won’t let him. Tears well in Clarke’s eyes.

“Wells,” she says desperately, “Wells, come on, you’re gonna be okay. Wells, please don’t die on me.”

Even as she says it, she knows that it’s futile. Wells’s throat is ripped to shreds. He has minutes, at most, and even if some miracle allowed him to survive… he’s been bitten. Nobody survives a bite.

“Wells,” she says again, and his eyes flutter shut. He sinks to the ground beside her, and there’s nothing Clarke can do but let him fall, her entire body turning numb as his hits the dirt. Dimly, she becomes aware of a hand on her shoulder.

It’s Bellamy, looking down on her sadly. The herd is taken care of, lying dead — for the second time — on the ground around them. They’re all still here, breathing heavily and stained with blood. Except Wells. Clarke swallows hard, closing her eyes tightly, as if that will make the situation any less real.

“It was my fault.” Fox’s voice, shaky and thin, breaking through the silence like a knife. She’s crying. “It was coming for me. He — he saved my life.”

The tears that Clarke’s been holding back fall and she can’t help but let out a sob. Typical of Wells, gentle, good Wells, to die playing the hero. Protecting the weakest of them., instead of protecting himself. She hates him for it.

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” Bellamy says, his voice low. His hand is still on her shoulder.

“He was bitten,” Murphy hisses, earning a punch in the arm from Octavia, which he responds to with a glare. “What? Look, it sucks that he’s dead, but he’s been _bit_. You know what we have to do.”

“Jesus, Murphy,” Raven says with disgust. “Can you give her a second to grieve?”

But he can’t, and Clarke knows that. For once, Murphy’s not being an ass for the sake of being an ass. He’s trying to protect them. With shaking fingers, Clarke reaches for the knife that she’s dropped in the dirt. She hears a sharp intake of breath from behind her.

“Clarke, you don’t have to be the one to do this,” Bellamy urges. Clarke shakes her head.

“It should be me,” she says, frightened by how hollow her voice sounds.

Driving the knife through Wells’s head is harder than driving it through the skulls of the undead, and not just because he’s her best friend. The bone is still strong. It takes all of her strength to do it, but finally, with a wrenching sob, she manages it. She doesn’t try to retrieve the knife; she doesn’t think she could bear the sound it would make when it came out. Instead, she takes Wells’s, and gets to her feet shakily, tasting bile in her mouth. She looks back at Bellamy, watching her with worry creasing his forehead.

Earlier tonight, camp seemed safe. It can't have been more than an hour since they heard about the safe zone, but it feels like an eternity. Everything is different now; it feels like they’re just sitting ducks, waiting for the next attack. If they’d left earlier, the moment that they heard the Mount Weather broadcast, Wells might still be alive. It was Clarke who hesitated; Clarke who insisted that they wait and make a plan. If Clarke hadn’t been so cautious, then her best friend might not have died. Wells might have died protecting Fox, but his death is still on Clarke’s head. She’s not going to let any more of her friends die because of her hesitance.

“We’re not safe here,” she says. “Tomorrow, we’ll leave for Mount Weather.”

“Clarke—”

“Tomorrow,” she repeats, and no one questions her further. Fox is still sobbing silently. Clarke looks at Bellamy, and then back down at Wells’s body. “We have to bury him. I’m not leaving him here like this.”

Murphy starts to say something about wasting time, but Octavia delivers another punch to his arm and he falls silent.

“Sure, Clarke,” Bellamy says softly. “We can bury him.”

She nods, trying to swallow back the lump that rises in her throat, and they get to work on digging a grave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa arranges for her people to take on extra watch shifts in an effort to protect the camp against Nia's bandits. On her own watch shift, she catches two intruders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little late due to life-related things, but here it is!

Darkness rolls over Lexa’s camp, and with it, the cold. She’s in her sleeping quarters, what used to serve as the cabin of the camp director, trying to get some rest before it’s her turn to watch the perimeter, though it’s proving difficult. There are more guards patrolling tonight than normal, per Lexa’s request, and the increased foot traffic outside her room is making it hard to fall asleep. Even without the noise, Lexa’s not sure that she’d manage it. She can’t stop thinking about Echo.

She’s not the first to try and make it to Mount Weather, and Lexa doubts she’ll be the last, but this is the first time that it’s actually cut Lexa this bad to lose someone to the mountain. Maybe it’s because it’s been weeks since the last attempt, or maybe she’s just hurt that Echo would knowingly go against her advice. Probably, though, it’s because this is the first time she’s shut down rescue attempts. She’d announced it earlier tonight, while they were all feasting on the deer. The response to Echo’s absence had been dismay; the reaction to the news that they weren’t going to look for her had been outrage. Nonetheless, Lexa had stood her ground.

Echo’s disappearance will be a message, a warning to anyone else who thinks to play saviour. The mountain is dangerous.

With a sigh, Lexa gets to her feet and stretches, accepting that she won’t get any sleep before she’s due to take watch duty. She begins pacing the room, forcing the thoughts of Echo from her mind and thinking instead of Nia and her people, who seem so determined to take everything that they have. Nia is a problem that she might actually be able to solve.

The campground had a decent store of goods when they found it — most of it was perishable, of course, hot dogs and frozen burgers, designed to be cooked and eaten before the end of the summer, but they found cases of bottled water in one of the store rooms. There was a mess hall with cans of beans, tomatoes, and fruits, boxes of rice, and bags of pasta in the kitchen. They’d known, even in the beginning, how lucky they were to have found it. Since then, they’ve been careful to use it wisely, knowing that they have to make it last. Nia’s group aren’t so considerate, though. Whenever they manage to breach Lexa’s walls, they take what they want. The stores are depleted now, and even though she and others in camp are good at hunting, even though she sends regular parties to the city to scavenge for more food, Lexa’s starting to worry that it’s not enough. Winter’s almost upon them, and they’re going to need food to keep their strength up. She’s not sure what she’ll do if they manage to catch any of Nia’s bandits, but she knows that they have to try. They can’t keep letting them away with it, not anymore.

Her request for volunteers to take on extra watch shifts had been met with cool indifference. Most people are still angry with her about her decision not to look for Echo — the decision had been a divisive one, with some remaining loyal to Lexa and agreeing that sending out a search party was futile, and others, mostly Echo’s close friends, campaigning passionately to bring her home. So there aren’t as many volunteers as Lexa would like, but there are some. Her most loyal allies; Anya, Indra, Titus, Lincoln, Nyko, Gustus. They’ve taken it in turns today, keeping watch of the perimeter, and now it’s Lexa’s turn.

She opens the door of the cabin, frowning as an involuntary shiver runs through her body. She finds herself wishing for one of the warm, oversized sweaters that she wore in days gone by, but they’re gone now; lost somewhere in her dorm room, probably, at her old university, which fell to the dead months ago. Fighting off a yawn, Lexa wraps herself in a leather jacket instead and emerges into the cool night air.

She heads for the main gate, an overly embellished wooden monstrosity bearing a sign above it that proclaims _POLIS SUMMER CAMP_ , and then, in smaller letters underneath, _Open to children aged 5-13_. The entire camp is surrounded by a fence made of the same tall wooden slats, and the gate itself has a latch that can be locked from the inside; a goldmine, for people hiding from the ravenous dead. Anya’s lolling against the gate, metal baseball bat gripped loosely in her long fingers, humming a broken tune under her breath. She starts at the sound of Lexa’s footsteps, shoulders tensing until she realises who it is.

“You’re early,” she says, peering at the smashed watch on her left wrist.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Lexa tells her, leaning on the opposite side of the gate and wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. “I can’t stop thinking about everything.”

Anya should be going, leaving Lexa to do watch duty, but she stays where she is, studying Lexa’s face intently. Lexa keeps waiting for her to leave, but minutes pass and Anya remains, quiet and thoughtful. Finally, she squares her shoulders and plants the head of her baseball bat in the dirt, leaning on it for support. “You look like you could use some company,” she says.

Lexa shakes her head. “You should sleep.”

“If you can’t sleep, what makes you think I can?”

“You’ve been on watch for hours—”

“So a couple more won’t kill me,” Anya finishes simply, and the look in her eyes tells Lexa that arguing with her is useless.

“Thank you,” she says instead, sincerity plain in her voice. “For everything, Anya.” She hesitates. “Not a lot of people are on my side tonight.”

“What, you mean about Echo?” Anya shrugs. “You made the right call, Lexa. It sucks that you have to be the bad guy here, but you’re right. We can’t keep sending people out to look for idiots who can’t stay inside the fence. The mountain is dangerous, we all know that. People are just pissed because now they know that they’re expendable.”

“They’re not, though,” Lexa says softly. “That’s why we can’t go looking for her. It’s not that I don’t want to bring Echo home — it’s that I can’t bear the thought of losing anybody else looking for her.”

Anya gives her a sidelong glance. “You know that there are people talking about going out to search for her anyway.”

Lexa closes her eyes. “I know. I won’t stop them. They’re free to do whatever they want. But I’m not sanctioning a search party. I won’t have more blood on my hands.”

_Except for Echo’s,_ her mind whispers, unbidden, but Lexa forces the thought away. She means what she said: this is a survivors’ camp, not a dictatorship, and if her people want to ignore her advice and go to the mountain, there’s nothing she can do about it. But she can certainly make it known that they’re effectively cutting themselves loose from the group by trying.

“Do you ever think about it?” Anya asks. “The mountain, I mean.” When Lexa doesn’t respond, she sighs. “I do, sometimes. I wonder if the people that left actually made it there, and just… I dunno. Forgot about us?”

“They wouldn’t.”

Lexa remembers the first party that went out in search of the mountain, happy, hopeful, sure that they’d found a way out of this never-ending nightmare. They’d promised to come back for the others in the camp. Lexa had personally put her life at risk to bring some of those people to her camp. There was no way that they’d just left her here to rot. No way.

“Do you think they made it, though? Or did something happen to them on the way?”

“I don’t know, Anya,” she says, tired of the topic. “Does it matter?”

“They said it was safe,” Anya murmurs. “Do you think anywhere’s safe, anymore?”

This time, Lexa doesn’t reply. She doesn’t know if she trusts herself to say the right thing.

Anya leaves not long after that, and Lexa watches alone, hand poised on the handle of her gun, ready to shoot if necessary. It’s not — there’s no sign of Nia or her people, or anyone, really, and as dawn creeps over the horizon, Lexa finds herself oddly disappointed. She wanted them to make an attempt so that she could end this now. As it stands, the extended watch shifts will have to continue.

She returns to her cabin early the next morning, once Nyko and Titus relieve her of her post. It’s easier to fall asleep now; a night spent guarding the camp brings on a certain kind of exhaustion that overrides all of the anxious thoughts swirling around in her mind. She’s barely made it into her sleeping bag before her eyes are falling shut, heavy with sleep.

It’s not a peaceful rest — her dreams are filled with her waking anxieties. Nia’s people breach the gates, making off with what little remains of their food stores; biters swarm the camp, targeting the most vulnerable and ripping them to shreds while Lexa stands by, helpless; the mountain looms, with her lost people standing at its foot, black-eyed and gaunt. At the head of the crowd is Echo, blood-stained and bruised, her eyes accusing as they bore into Lexa’s.

“Why didn’t you look for me?” she says, the words coming out garbled because of the scarlet blood pouring from her mouth, and Lexa jackknifes upright, panting.

From the light streaming through the window, she guesses that it’s mid-afternoon at least. She pads out of the cabin, sleep-ruffled and yawning, to find the camp busy. The crowds make her nervous. She expects eyes to dart away from hers, assumes that people will still be furious about Echo, but no one’s gaze falters when it meets hers. Some even shoot smiles in Lexa’s direction as she heads for the mess hall. When she reaches it, she finds it quiet — canned food will be distributed later in the evening, for those who aren’t on watch. Those who take watch shifts eat when they choose, which is why she’s not surprised to see Lincoln and Indra seated at a table near the serving line, deep in conversation.

Indra looks up at her approach and shifts to the side, making room for Lexa on her bench.

“Lexa,” she says in her solemn, throaty voice. Lexa gives a nod in response and looks to Lincoln.

“People seem less… on edge, today,” she says. Lincoln shrugs.

“The deer helped,” he says wryly. “It’s funny how people are less irritable on a full stomach, isn’t it? We even had some volunteers to take on extra watch shifts today, to keep an eye out for Nia’s people.” He grins, showing off teeth that are still white and perfect, even as their toothpaste rations dwindle. “Although that might have had more to do with Indra’s threats than the deer, now that I think about it.”

Lexa turns to Indra, amused. “You threatened people, Indra?”

The older woman shrugs. “They’re too quick to forget all that you’ve done for them,” she says fiercely. “They’re growing too spoilt inside these walls. Most of these people would be dead without you and all that you do for us, and yet they turn their backs on you for making hard choices? As though they could do better, in your position?” She shakes her head. “That’s not loyalty.”

Lexa feels a rush of affection for Indra. She has a temper, there’s no denying that, and she’s been the cause of several disputes in camp, but one aspect of Indra’s character that’s never in question is her loyalty. She treats Lexa with the utmost respect, despite her youth, and she never questions the decisions that she makes. Lexa’s lucky to have someone like Indra on her side, and it’s moments like this that remind her to be grateful for that.

“So, who’s on watch now?” she asks, looking from Indra to Lincoln and then back again.

Lincoln first lists off all of those patrolling the perimeter and then those on the most vulnerable entrances. “Nyko and Anya at the main gate. Titus and Niylah on the east wall, Gustus and Tristan on the west. They’re due a shift change soon, though. Indra and I are going to relieve Gustus and Tristan.” He shrugs. “We figured taking it in pairs was the smart way.”

“I’ll take the main gate,” Lexa says decisively, earning a searching gaze from Lincoln.

“By yourself?”

“I can handle it. I did it last night.”

“More reason for you to rest.”

“I can handle it, Lincoln.” Lexa doesn’t snap, but the warning is clear in her tone as she repeats herself. At the look on his face, she softens her words. “I can’t very well ask people to do something I won’t do myself, can I? I have to be willing to put in the extra hours too.”

“By yourself, though—”

“I like doing guard duty by myself,” she assures him. “It’s… peaceful. And besides, if I happen to catch one of Nia’s people, I _want_ them all to myself.”

Lincoln shakes his head, and something like concern passes over Indra’s features, but neither of them make any further attempts to dissuade her. Lexa’s glad; her restless sleep has made her irritable, and the last thing she wants is to snap at two of the only people in camp who she can say for certain are on her side.

They eat together before heading to relieve the others of their watch shifts — nothing fancy, as no hunting parties went out today, but enough to sustain them for the evening. Lexa thinks longingly of the deer from the day before as she tucks into a cold can of baked beans, and resolves to take another trip out tomorrow in search of meat, but for now, the beans will have to do. With her belly as full as it’s going to get, she leaves the mess hall with Indra and Lincoln, only half-listening as they outline their plans for their shared guard duty. They walk with her only part of the way, breaking off at the infirmary and heading to the west wall while Lexa continues straight, making her way to the main gate.

She’s walking against the crowd now as people head to the mess hall in search of food, and once again, she’s met with far less hostility than she expected. Most people seem indifferent, if not happy to see her, though she’s forced to acknowledge that there are still some who hold a grudge — like the rangy boy with the sandy blond hair who spits at her feet as he passes by, his face grim and his eyes accusing. A friend of Echo’s, Lexa has no doubt, but she tries not to show how his anger affects her. She swallows hard, keeps her head held high, and continues her trek to the gate.

When she reaches it, she finds Anya and Nyko reminiscing about Before; more specifically, about how much they miss pizza delivery services. It’s a coping mechanism among many in her camp, Lexa’s found. They like to talk about the past, about the things that they miss most. They say that it’s cathartic, but Lexa has another word for it — masochistic. At her appearance, Anya and Nyko immediately demand to know her favourite pizza topping, but it’s a game that Lexa won’t play. She takes up her stance at the gate and shakes her head, flattening her lips into a thin line.

“That was Before,” she says, forgetting for a moment that not everybody distinguishes Before and Now the way that she does. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Anya pouts at her. “You’re no fun,” she says, kicking the toe of Lexa’s boot, but she still blows a kiss in her direction when she and Nyko leave. They promise to send someone to take over in a few hours, and then they’re gone.

Left alone, Lexa leans against the gate and crosses her arms. The wood is slotted too closely together for her to see through, but there’s a crate for her to stand on nearby. She hefts it over and then climbs on top, scanning the immediate area outside the fence. It’s empty, without even a stray biter in sight. That should be a relief, but she finds herself oddly disappointed. Since Echo’s disappearance, Lexa feels disjointed. It’s like she’s at a loose end; she needs to do something, anything, to help, but there’s nothing for her to do. She can’t look for Echo; she can’t bring back the way things were Before; she can’t do anything to help the dead that aren’t dead. But maybe if she can stop Nia’s incessant raids on her camp, maybe that will be enough to make her feel like she’s doing something right. It’s a start, at least.

The first hour of her watch passes agonisingly slowly, and she almost wishes that she’d listened to Lincoln and brought along a partner. It’s late afternoon before the silent air finally stirs, and by then, Lexa’s half-afraid that she’s imagining things, that the setting sun has brought on hallucinations. She stills, hardly daring to breathe, and then there it is again — a voice. Low and careful, but human, and decidedly not dead. Still holding her breath, Lexa steps down from the crate so that she won’t be seen and presses close to the gate to listen.

“… It’s hard, but we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do to survive, you know?”

A male voice, probably rationalising the thefts on Lexa’s camp. Gritting her teeth, Lexa’s hand strays first to the gun at her waist, and then to her hunting knife. After a moment’s consideration, she unsheathes the knife. It’s better to save the bullets.

“I know. Doesn’t make it any easier to sleep at night, though, does it? Especially after this. After what happened just now…”

The second voice belongs to a girl. It sounds weary, hollow, broken enough to make Lexa wonder what its owner has been through — a lot, by the sounds of things, and maybe something today that’s made things worse. But whatever it is doesn’t matter. What matters is that the voices are getting closer, and with at least two of them and only one of her, Lexa has to figure out a plan, and fast. Biting her lip, she moves to the left of the gate. It’s locked, but if they manage to break it, this is where the first of the intruders will enter, giving her the perfect opportunity to grab them and put her knife to their throat. If she’s lucky, they won’t have weapons. None of Nia’s bandits have been caught in Lexa’s camp before, and that’s reason enough to believe that they might have grown cocky.

Just a few feet away, Lexa hears two sets of footsteps come to a halt.

“This is it, then?” says the boy, close enough now that Lexa doesn’t have to strain to make out his words. “The summer camp that Raven talked about?”

“This is it,” the girl responds, listless. “And we better hope that they’ve still got medical supplies, because if they don’t…” She trails off and Lexa feels a spark of rage. So it’s not enough for Nia to steal their food, now she wants their medicine, too? Lexa’s so angry that she almost misses the girl’s next words. “Come on. We’ve got to hurry.”

Lexa tightens her grip on the handle of her knife and bends her knees, ready to pounce. She hears the gate rattle as the intruders try to open it, and then a sigh as they realise it’s locked.

“Here, Finn,” the girl says. “Give me a boost.”

So they’re not even going to try and break the gate. Lexa’s grateful for that, at least — she won’t have to assign anyone to repair it, after. She takes a breath, waiting.

The girl swings over the gate, landing on Lexa’s side of the fence with a gracefulness that suggests she’s used to this kind of thing. She doesn’t notice Lexa, too intent on opening the gate to let the boy — Finn — in. It gives Lexa the perfect opportunity to tackle her from behind. The girl lets out a sharp yelp as they fall to the ground, grappling with one another. There are frantic cries from the other side of the fence as the boy tries to work out what’s going on, but Lexa pays him no heed. The girl puts up a good fight, but at last, Lexa gets the better of her, straddling her hips and pressing her into the dirt. She holds her knife close against the girl’s throat, so close that there’s no mistaking her intentions — struggle, the blade says, and lose your life. Ferociously, Lexa grins down at her captive.

“Got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little note: this chapter and the next are occurring at the same time. This one is from Lexa's POV, the next will be from Clarke's. So don't worry, the sudden need for medical supplies will be revealed!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's group set out for the mountain and run into trouble on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a little late. Sorry!

The group is subdued when the time comes to leave camp.

Clarke can hardly blame them. The events of the night before have left her feeling numb; whenever she closes her eyes, she sees Wells sinking to his knees, blood spurting out of his neck like a fountain, and it takes everything she has not to crumple to the ground at the memory. But she can’t afford to fall apart. For the sake of her friends, and herself, she has to keep going, so while Finn and Bellamy direct the others to pack up the tents, she organises Raven and Octavia to help her with the weapons. Their weapons stash is pathetic, mostly knives and homemade spears, but they have a couple of guns with some precious ammo left. They get distributed to Miller and Murphy, two of the best shots in the group, though they’re given strict instructions to only shoot when absolutely necessary. Noise is less than ideal. It draws the lurkers.

They break camp mid-morning, with Bellamy heading up the pack as they make their way towards the city. Usually, Clarke would be right up front with him, but today she lags behind, lost in her own thoughts. Finn tries to draw conversation from her, but soon deduces that she’d rather be left alone, and jogs ahead to walk alongside Raven and Wick instead. Clarke’s grateful. Her mind is too full for company right now.

For the first time, the rapidly cooling weather plays to their advantage. Even a couple of weeks beforehand, it would have been difficult to spend the day walking — now, with the weak sun and the strong breeze, they’re able to push forward with ease, even lugging everything they own behind them.

It occurs to Clarke that her entire life is strapped to her back right now. She tries not to think about how depressing that is.

The first half hour of their walk is peaceful, until they reach the city boundaries. Once there, there’s a shift in the air. Clarke isn’t sure if it’s the world itself, or the attitude of her group, but something changes. Their conversations die out. Their shoulders tense, their necks stiffen. Everyone can sense it. The only change is in their surroundings, but something about it screams danger. Keep out.

But the quickest route to Mount Weather is through the city, so they forge on ahead. Those more used to the city move around the others, forming sort of a protective circle; Clarke, Bellamy, Finn, Murphy, Miller, Monty, Jasper and Octavia, hovering around their companions with their hands tensed and ready to grab for their weapons. It’s still early, and the lurkers tend to be more active when the daylight fades, but none of them want to take any chances. The memory of what happened to Wells is still too fresh in their minds.

The change in formation allows Bellamy to fall into step with Clarke, walking so close to her that their sides almost brush. Her instinct is to pull away, but when he speaks, voice hushed, she realises his intention — to speak to her without the rest of the group hearing.

“How are you doing, Clarke?”

She bites back the sarcastic retort that threatens to leave her lips, because it’s not Bellamy’s fault that her best friend is dead. There’s no one to blame for what happened to Wells, except maybe Clarke herself, and she won’t take her pain out on the rest of them. They’ve all lost someone. That’s why they’re here. It won’t do anyone any good for her to be abrasive and cruel when all that anyone wants to do is offer support.

“Holding up,” she says instead, and though the words sound convincing, she can tell from the look in Bellamy’s eyes that he doesn’t believe her. “I’ll get there,” she relents, and he nods, returning his attention to watching the streets around them.

The funny thing about the end of the world, Clarke has come to realise, is that everything seems to speed up in the aftermath. Relationships are accelerated, both romantic and otherwise, because people are scared to be alone for what little time they have left. There’s no such thing as a mourning period, anymore, because they don’t have time to waste grieving for the dead. They’re forced to move on before they’re ready, because not moving on could have unthinkable consequences. People aren’t living for the present anymore, or even living for the future. They’re living to survive.

Sometimes, she wonders if surviving is enough. It’s a thought that’s been rattling around in her head more than usual since they buried Wells.

It’s midday now, and people are growing tired, so they agree to take a quick rest stop. Clarke’s uneasy about it; the city is dangerous, that’s been proven to the scouts time and time again, and she doesn’t like the thought of staying here any longer than they have to. But hauling tents and camping equipment has turned out to be more difficult than they anticipated, even with the burden split between them, and if they don’t rest now, they won’t be at their best later on. They decide on a movie theatre, and a few of the more experienced members of the group go in first to assess the threat. There are a few lurkers shambling about the lobby, but they’re dispatched easily enough by Jasper and Monty, who volunteer to watch the perimeter while the rest of the group sit and get some of their energy back. Closing her eyes, Clarke sits against the ticket counter and sips from a bottle of water, one of their very limited supply, and thinks about Mount Weather, wondering if the people there have figured out how to live again.

Her train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of Octavia, folding herself down to sit beside Clarke. She holds out her hand for the bottle of water and Clarke hands it over silently, looking at the faded carpet while Octavia drinks.

“You look like you’re constipated,” Octavia says bluntly, earning a laugh in response.

“Well, my diet is significantly lacking in fibre.”

“Gotta get on that, Clarke. Your body’s a temple, you know? Gotta worship it, or some shit like that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clarke says, smiling for the first time that day. Octavia returns the smile with one of her own, nudging Clarke affectionately with her shoulder.

“Listen,” she says after a moment, sounding awkward. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry about Wells. He was a great guy. A hero, even. Fox wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”

For the briefest of moments, Clarke feels a flash of resentment for Fox. Yes, Fox wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Wells — but if it wasn’t for Fox, Wells would be here. Maybe there’s someone to blame for what happened after all. Her eyes flicker across the room, where Fox is sitting with Monroe, looking as sweet and kind as ever, and guilt envelops her.

It isn’t Fox’s fault that Wells is dead. It’s not fair of her to think that it is.

“Wells was too gentle for this world,” she says softly, and though it pains her to say it out loud, she knows it’s the truth. If he hadn’t died saving Fox, Wells would have met his end another way. She knows that, deep down. At least his death means something. It’s a poor consolation, but it’s something.

Octavia studies her with the close, penetrating gaze that she shares with her brother. “You gonna be okay, Clarke?”

Clarke closes her eyes. Things in this new world, she remembers, are accelerated. There will never be enough time for her to mourn Wells’s loss — even before the world turned upside down, she doesn’t think there would have been enough time — but she can honour his memory by doing the same thing that he died for. Protecting the rest of her friends. That’s what matters now. Wells wouldn’t have wanted her to wallow in grief and self-pity, anyway. The best thing she can do for him, for herself, for the rest of the group, is to put on a brave face and lead them. She meets Octavia’s eyes, resolute.

“I’m fine,” she says, with so much conviction that she almost believes it herself.

They don’t linger long in the movie theatre. Bellamy’s anxious for them to get moving so they don’t lose the daylight, so after a few minutes, they move on, falling back into the same pattern as before. This time, though, Clarke sticks closer to the group. She doesn’t insert herself into Raven and Wick’s conversation, but she walks close enough beside them that it looks as though she’s participating, and in the meantime, keeps her eyes peeled for lurkers.

A couple of them lurch out of the broken glass doors of a supermarket, clearly heading for Monroe and Harper. Without missing a beat, Clarke darts forward, pushing the blade of her knife through the skull of the nearest one to her and gripping the other by its shirt so that Monroe can dispatch it herself. When it slumps to the ground, Monroe meets her eyes.

“Thanks,” she says. Clarke gives a shrug.

They take another break once they reach the centre of the city, this time setting up camp in a bank and breaking into their meagre food rations for lunch. They’re livelier now as they sit cross-legged on the cracked marble floor, nibbling on protein bars. They’re halfway through the city now; the most dangerous part of their trek is over, and they’re a lot closer to Mount Weather than they were this morning. Clarke can’t blame her friends for being giddy with hope, but she remains more reserved, afraid to let herself believe that there might be safety at the end of this journey. It still seems too good to be true, and she doesn’t want to be let down.

Miller, at least, remains his usual cynical self, so Clarke’s not the only one missing the light at the end of the tunnel.

“How much longer, do you think?” Finn asks, crumpling the wrapper of his protein bar and tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. Typical Finn; even after the world has ended, he remains environmentally conscious. Clarke can’t help but grin at the futility.

“A couple more hours till we get out of the city, anyway,” Raven replies, studying the crude map that she and Wick drew up before leaving camp. “We still have to take it slow, you know? There’s some woods just past the border and then that summer camp that I mentioned yesterday is probably an hour out on foot.” She frowns thoughtfully. “If we take another break here, on the edge of town, then we can head through the woods and take shelter in the summer camp for the night.”

“I thought you said it was a day’s walk,” Bellamy says, brow furrowing.

“I _guessed_ it might be a day’s walk,” Raven corrects him. “And we could probably make it to Mount Weather by tonight if we kept walking, you’re right, but the sun’s going to be setting by the time we make it to the woods. Do you really want to keep going in the dark, Bellamy?”

“I don’t,” Fox pipes up. “I think we should rest.”

“It’s safer,” Monty agrees, “but how do we know that this camp is a safe place to spend the night?”

“It’s surrounded by a fence. High walls, gated. If there are any lurkers inside we can probably get rid of them pretty easily, and the walls will keep out others during the night.” Raven glances around the group. “I used to go to this camp when I was a kid. It’s a fortress, trust me. If I’d been closer to it when everything happened, I’d damn sure have holed up inside.”

Bellamy looks to Clarke, his gaze considering. He’s impatient to get to Mount Weather, it doesn’t take a genius to see that, but he knows the risks of carrying on in the darkness. They’ve always taken care to be somewhere safe when night falls. Now, on the eve of what could be their salvation, there’s no reason to change their patterns. Bellamy understands that, but he needs a push to admit it.

“We’ll take shelter at the camp,” she says decisively, her tone indicating that there’s no room for argument. “We can set out for Mount Weather again in the morning.”

And with that, it’s decided. They finish their paltry lunch, pass around a bottle of water, and then they get moving again.

The deeper they go into the city, the more lurkers they come across. Clarke finds it easier to keep her knife in her hand, running her thumb along the leather handle as they move through the silent streets. Every few feet, there’s a corpse to dispatch. For now, they’re attacking in pairs or alone; they’ve been lucky enough not to run into any herds. Clarke hopes that their luck will last until they reach the edge of town, but just in case, she stays alert, always scanning her surroundings for potential threats.

Those members of the group who haven’t spent as much time in the city since the outbreak prove more capable than expected — Monroe is just as quick with a blade as any of them, it turns out, and Raven, Wick and Harper are capable fighters, too. Even Fox manages to take down one or two lurkers that shamble across her path, though she looks more than a little bit queasy afterwards.

After a couple of hours, they reach the edge of the city, and take another break inside a run-down daycare centre. Pushing open the door, Clarke’s half-afraid that they’ll find the bodies of dead or undead children inside, but mercifully, the place is abandoned. Octavia, Bellamy, Wick and Finn take responsibility for watching the perimeter, two to the back entrance and two to the front, and the rest of the group sit, exhausted. Clarke’s feet are throbbing, her back aching from hauling heavy camping equipment so long and so far, but she thinks that she can make it to the summer camp. She has to; there’s no way they can spend the night here, no matter how safe it might seem right now.

She perches on the edge of a table and leans down to massage the tops of her feet through her boots, not daring to remove them out in the open like this. The attempt at comfort is in vain and she sighs, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes, thinking back to the old days, when her feet would ache when she returned from the gym and she could soak them to relieve the pain. Right now, she’d give just about anything for a foot bath.

Eyes still shut, she hardly notices Jasper and Monty settling themselves on the table on either side of her, until she hears Jasper’s voice in her ear. “Doing okay?”

She starts, surprised to find him so close by. He’s looking at her with worry in his eyes, though the smile on his lips tells her that he’s trying to seem nonchalant. She forces a smile in return, looking between him and Monty to assure them that she’s fine.

“I’m okay, guys,” she says, and though Jasper seems convinced, Monty continues to look at her searchingly, like he’s waiting for an elaboration. Clarke relents. “Alright, maybe I’m not okay yet. But I’m going to be. I _have_ to be.” She hesitates, unsure if she should say what’s truly on her mind. “Look… with the world the way it is, we don’t get time to mourn, you know? We just have to keep on surviving and hope that there’s time for mourning when everything’s done.”

Monty frowns, looking as though he wants to argue with her, but he doesn’t get a chance. Their heart-to-heart is interrupted by a warning shout from Wick, who’s backing away from the back door and tugging Octavia along with him.

“Lurkers at the back entrance,” he warns. “A lot of them, too many for the two of us.”

Instantly, Clarke is on her feet, knife in hand; beside her, Jasper and Monty are taking up fighting stances, Jasper grasping his spear and Monty his knife. The rest of the group stand and draw their weapons, some like Miller and Murphy looking determined, others, like Fox, looking uncertain.

“We’ll exit through the front, then,” Clarke says, but then Bellamy is there, shaking his head.

“They’re at the front, too. They came out of nowhere — the whole place is surrounded.”

“I thought you idiots were supposed to be _watching_ the place,” Murphy bites out. Bellamy glares, squaring up to Murphy.

“Listen, you little shit—”

“Enough,” Clarke barks, and all eyes turn to her. “We don’t have time for this. We have to figure out how to get out of here — Bellamy, Wick, how many would you say is out there?”

“At least a dozen to the back,” Wick says, “probably more.”

Still glowering at Murphy, Bellamy says “Double that out front. I don’t think they’ve realised that we’re in here yet, but it won’t be long before they do, and this place isn’t exactly defensible.”

“Fuck,” Clarke swears. “Is there a side entrance? A window, even?”

Even as she says it, she knows that it’s useless. There’s no way that all twelve of them can sneak out a window without attracting the attention of the lurkers. The only way out, it appears, is through, but if they open either of the doors, then the herd will come rushing in. They’ll be trapped. For the lurkers, it will be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

“Clarke?”

“I’m thinking,” she says desperately, but there’s no more time to think. The lurkers at the front have noticed them; they’re pressing against the door, and Bellamy’s right, it’s not built to withstand the force. There’s a sharp cracking noise as the lock breaks, and then the dead flood the daycare, snapping their jaws as they advance towards Clarke and her group.

Immediately, all hell breaks loose. Bellamy guessed that there were about two dozen lurkers out front, but the tide seems never ending. Clarke hacks and stabs at everything that comes her way, but there’s always more, always another ready to strike. She’s dimly aware of the others fighting alongside her, but mostly, she’s concentrated on making sure she doesn’t get bitten. Knife flashing, she backs up to the wall, letting out a shout to attract the lurkers in her direction.

Back against the wall, she’s able to dispatch the dead without having to keep an eye on her tail, and after what seems like an eternity, she manages to cut a sizeable swathe through them. Breathing heavily, knife crusted in blood, she sees some of her friends still fighting; Bellamy and Octavia are back-to-back, taking down anything that comes within an inch of them, and Monroe has once again proven herself more capable than Clarke anticipated, if the pile of bodies surrounding her feet is anything to go by. The daycare is almost cleared now, and the others are heading for the door in hopes of escaping, led by Raven and Monty. Clarke lurches forward to follow, but she’s barely made it a step when she sees Raven stumble and then rapidly move backwards.

“Back!” she shouts. “Get back, there’s more of them trying to get inside!”

Monty darts forward and grabs the fallen door, and with Jasper’s help, manages to lodge it back in place. It won’t hold forever, but it might hold the lurkers out long enough for them to escape. The boys press their backs against it for more support, while Raven and the others scramble back to the centre of the room. Octavia dispatches the last of the lurkers, and it seems as though they’re safe, for a moment at least. But then suddenly, there’s a riot of swearing, and Murphy raises his gun, pointing it — inexplicably — at Raven.

“MURPHY!” Clarke shrieks, but he doesn’t look at her. “MURPHY! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

“She’s bit!”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Raven says frantically, but Murphy’s still pointing the gun at her. Clarke moves towards him, ready to grab the weapon from his hands, but at the sound of her footsteps he turns and aims it at her instead. Swallowing hard, Clarke holds up her hands.

“Murphy,” she says again, but she can tell from the panic on his face that he’s not going to hear a word she says.

“Look at her leg,” he says, and then points the gun at her again. “I’m telling you, something got her when she went to the door, she’s going to turn. We have to put her down.”

Raven’s sobbing now, words coming out garbled as she tries to explain. Clarke follows Murphy’s line of sight and her stomach lurches — because Raven’s leg _is_ bleeding, crimson liquid flowing down it faster than the tears on her cheeks. Seeing Clarke’s face pale, Raven shakes her head rapidly.

“It’s not a bite,” she says, “it’s not, I’m not bitten, I swear. There’s a piece of wood sticking out of the door, I scraped my leg on it trying to get out, but I’m not bitten, I’m not, I’m not, I swear Clarke, I’m _not_.”

She’s speaking so quickly that Clarke worries that she might throw up. Hands still held in the air, eyes locked on Murphy’s, she starts to move towards the injured girl.

“I’m just going to take a look at it, alright?” she says, addressing Murphy as though he’s a child that she’s afraid of spooking. “We’ve got time, Murphy. Let me check it out.”

As Clarke advances towards Raven, the only sound in the room is that of Raven’s sobs, and of the lurkers trying to get in. Murphy keeps the gun pointed at Clarke while she bends, examining Raven’s leg.

Her jeans have been torn open, though it’s not immediately clear what’s to blame. There’s so much blood that it takes a moment for Clarke to discern what the injury is, but after a few moments of careful inspection, she sees it. A long, jagged gash runs along Raven’s shin, from the base of her knee to just above her ankle. It’s deep and angry-looking, but, Clarke notes with relief, there’s no way that it’s a lurker bite. There are splinters edging the wound, and no teeth marks to be found. Clarke meets Raven’s eyes, trying to convey as much comfort as she can through a simple look.

“I’m not bit,” Raven says again, and Clarke reaches for her hand, squeezing it with her own.

“I know,” she says soothingly, and gets to her feet. She turns to Murphy, raising her hands in the air again, and when she speaks, it’s with as much authority as she can muster. “She’s telling the truth, Murphy. There’s no way that’s a lurker bite. Now lower the damn gun.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain.” Still looking as though he doesn’t believe her, Murphy lowers the weapon. Immediately, Clarke’s gaze flickers to Bellamy and he steps forward, grabbing it from Murphy’s slackened fingers.

“What the fuck?” Murphy snarls, wheeling on Bellamy, but Bellamy just glares at him.

“You’re lucky I don’t knock you out for what you just did,” he says darkly, checking the safety on the gun and tucking it into his waistband. “Consider that the last time you hold one of our guns, Murphy. We don’t need you going nuclear every time someone gets a paper cut.”

Clarke agrees with the sentiment, but Raven’s wound is most definitely not a paper cut. Drawing Bellamy aside, she tells him that.

“She needs medicine. Something to clean the wound, stitches, a bandage. If she doesn’t get the proper medical attention, then Murphy won’t _have_ to put her down. She won’t make it.” She bites her lip. “I can take care of it, but I don’t have the equipment. All we have left is a couple of boxes of painkillers and some gummy vitamins.”

Bellamy thinks for a moment. “Alright,” he says. “The summer camp — it’s got to have an infirmary, right?”

“Could be picked clean by now.”

“Or not,” he counters. “It’s probably our best shot. So, here’s what we do. We secure the daycare — Raven’s not going anywhere on that leg, so we don’t have much of a choice. You know what you’re looking for?” Clarke nods. “Okay, so you head for the camp with Finn and bring back the supplies that we need to help Raven. We spend the night here, let her rest up, and then we head for Mount Weather in the morning.”

It’s not ideal. The daycare isn’t safe, the last few minutes have more than proved that, but Bellamy’s right. Raven can’t travel on a wounded leg.

“Okay,” she hears herself say. “Let’s do it.”

They waste no time in getting the others up to speed on their plan. Jasper, Monty, Octavia and Miller are tasked with dispatching the lurkers still trying to gain entrance to the daycare; Wick and Monroe are given the duty of securing the building; Harper and Fox set up a sort of bed for Raven using one of the tables and some of their camping equipment. Finn prepares to set out with Clarke, and while Bellamy watches over the proceedings with a solemn eye, Murphy sulks over the loss of his gun.

Clarke and Finn take Raven’s map with them and exit the daycare through the back, which is clear now — the dead have all converged on the front of the building, thanks to the commotion inside. They leave the city in silence, cutting down any lurkers that cross their path, and make their way towards the woods. Both of them are lost in thought, and it’s not until they’ve been walking for a long while that Finn finally breaks the silence.

“That was intense.”

Clarke thinks back to the fear and paranoia in Murphy’s eyes, the pure terror on Raven’s face, her own fear when Murphy pointed the gun at her. “Intense” doesn’t quite cover it.

“Murphy was out of line,” she says quietly. “He was ready to kill her.”

“He thought that she was bitten,” Finn says, ready as always to play devil’s advocate. Clarke had thought that this case might be different — Raven is his best friend, his oldest friend, and her stomach knots uneasily at the fact that he’s still able to see why Murphy did what he did, despite the danger that she was in.

“‘Thought’ is the operative word here, Finn. He saw blood and he went to shoot. That’s not right. He’s… he’s dangerous.”

They’ve all thought it before. Murphy’s always been the most volatile of the group, the most unpleasant, too, but until now, the pros of having him in the group have outweighed the cons. Clarke’s not sure if that’s true anymore. As if he senses what she’s thinking, Finn sighs.

“Murphy’s a dick,” he says bluntly, “but we need him, Clarke. Yeah, maybe he doesn’t think before he acts, but he’s saved both of our asses more times than I can count. Having him around is safer than _not_ having him around.” He smiles humourlessly. “Besides, after what just happened back there, do you really want Murphy holding a grudge against you?” When she doesn’t respond, he sighs again. “It’s hard, but we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do to survive, you know?”

“I know,” Clarke says gloomily. “Doesn’t make it any easier to sleep at night, though, does it? Especially after this. After what happened just now…”

She trails off, throwing out a hand to halt Finn’s tracks. They left the shade of the wood a few feet back, and just up ahead, she can see the silhouette of a fence, just like the one that Raven described. She starts moving again, quickening her pace, and Finn does the same. Soon, they reach the fence, and its large wooden gate that reads _POLIS SUMMER CAMP._ Beside her, Finn sucks in a breath.

“This is it, then? The summer camp that Raven talked about?”

“This is it,” she says, though she’s not as hopeful at the sight of the gate as she thought she might be. “And we better hope that they’ve still got medical supplies, because if they don’t…” She shakes her head. If the infirmary’s cleaned out, then Raven is doomed. “Come on. We’ve got to hurry.”

She steps forward, trying the gate, but it’s locked. Frowning, Clarke weighs the pros and cons of trying to break it down and decides that it’s not worth it. She’s a fairly good climber. She’s pretty sure that she can jump it.

“Here, Finn. Give me a boost.”

He leans his shoulder against the gate and makes a step with his hands, raising her up so she can grasp the wooden slats. Clarke grips the fence and then swings over, landing on the other side easily. She straightens and immediately gets to work on unlocking the gate, but as she works on it, something tackles her from behind. She lets out a cry, immediately assuming that it’s a lurker, scrabbling for her knife as it knocks her to the ground. She hits the dirt hard and rolls over, punching and kicking in vain at the thing that’s holding her down, but her struggles are useless. She finds herself pinned, back against the dirt, with her attacker straddling her hips, but to her amazement, it’s not a lurker. It’s a girl, not much older than Clarke herself, with braided brunette hair and fierce green eyes.

Clarke blinks up at her, stupefied, and while she’s trying to process the fact that they’ve apparently stumbled across another survivor, the girl presses a wicked-looking knife to Clarke’s throat with a smile.

“Got you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa interrogates the intruders at Camp Polis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh this is super late and I am very, very sorry. The last couple of weeks have just been a whirlwind of work and going back to college and I've barely had a minute to breathe. I'll do my best to be more on time with updates in the future though!

On the other side of the fence, Lexa’s aware of the girl’s companion swearing and trying to find a way over, but she’s not worried. There’s no way anyone could climb it by themselves, and judging from the fact that they didn’t try to break down the gate in the first place, she guesses that they’re either not strong enough or just too stupid to think of the idea. So even though the boy — Finn — is shouting insults at Lexa from behind the gate, she ignores him, and takes the time instead to study her captive.

Like she thought, the girl appears to be around the same age as Lexa, maybe a year or two younger. She’s got blonde hair that might once have been shiny, but now hangs around her face in lank, greasy strands. Her eyes are blue and piercing as they bore into Lexa’s, her gaze not faltering even as Lexa applies more pressure to the knife at her throat. There’s something like grim determination on the girl’s face, and beneath it, surprise. The surprise irritates Lexa. So Nia’s people have grown cocky enough that they’re shocked that Lexa’s group would defend themselves. Well, she’ll give them something to be shocked about, alright.

She presses the knife harder against the girl’s throat, until beads of scarlet blood well up at its silver edge. The girl tries to remain stoic, but can’t help but grit her teeth at the pain. Lexa relents a little, though she still holds the weapon steady, a silent threat that she’s not afraid to slit the girl’s throat if she has to.

“How many of you are there?” she hisses. When the girl replies, it’s clear that she’s unsettled.

“Just two of us, I swear. Me and my friend Finn.”

Lexa thought as much. Her gaze flickers to the top of the fence, where Finn’s shouts are still coming through loud and clear, and then she meets the girl’s eyes again.

“Tell him to shut up. He’s going to draw every biter within a three mile radius to my front door if he doesn’t stop screaming like that.” At the girl’s hesitance, Lexa rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you if you cooperate with me. Tell him to be quiet. _Now._ ”

“Finn,” the girl calls out, sounding strained. The swearing stops. “I’m alright. She said you have to be quiet.”

“Clarke?” he calls back, and Lexa considers the name for a moment.

“Be quiet,” Clarke repeats. Her eyes never leave Lexa’s. Lexa respects her for that. It takes a lot of backbone to stare down the person holding a knife to your throat.

“Weapons,” she says bluntly. “Do you have any?”

“A knife,” Clarke says. “It’s strapped to my waist. That’s all I’ve got. Finn’s got a knife too, but we left everything else with our people.”

Lexa reaches down, fingers skimming the girl’s hipbones and the waistband of her jeans until she finds the hilt of a knife, which she removes and tucks into her own belt. Still holding her weapon to Clarke’s throat, she reaches into her back pocket with her free hand and retrieves a length of rope. She gestures for Clarke to hold up her hands and she does, swallowing hard as Lexa binds her hands together first, and then does the same to her ankles. It’s safe now to remove the weapon at her throat. Lexa drags Clarke a few feet away from the gate, and once she’s decided that they’re at a safe distance, she turns her gaze on the girl again.

“Tell your friend to drop his knife over the fence.”

Clarke hesitates, but does as she’s told. There’s a momentary pause and then another knife, larger, falls over the fence in a flash of silver, landing on the dirt with a soft thudding sound. Lexa darts forward and retrieves it, tucking it into her belt with the other. Then she turns back to Clarke, fingers resting on the latch of the gate.

“I’m going to let your friend in,” she says. “You better not be lying about your weapons, because if he pulls anything on me, I’m going to gut him with this.” She holds up her hunting knife, her pride and joy, sharpened to a deadly point after the deer, and much more threatening than either Clarke’s or Finn’s measly blades. Clarke’s face pales at the sight, probably remembering how sharp it felt pressed against the delicate skin of her throat. “I’ll gut him and make you watch, and then I’ll do the same to you — slowly. Is that clear?”

Clarke nods, eyes wide and fearful, and Lexa tightens her grip on the knife. With her free hand, she works the latch on the gate open, and it swings open to reveal a boy with long, shaggy dark hair. Anxiety is written plainly on his face, turning to fear when he spots Clarke lying on the ground, hands and feet bound together expertly. He looks at Lexa and she sees him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing anxiously in his throat.

“Listen—” he starts, but Lexa’s not in the mood to listen.

“Get inside the fence,” she orders, pointing the knife at him. He swallows again and edges inside, flattening his back against the fence while Lexa locks the gate. Once it’s secure, she tosses him some of the remaining rope. “Tie your ankles together.” He follows her directions, and once there’s no danger of him running, Lexa lowers the knife and takes care of his hands. She checks the knots on his bindings and then checks on Clarke’s, and when she’s certain that they’re not going anywhere, she starts jogging towards the administration office, the closest building to the gate.

To her relief, she finds Gustus and Tristan lounging inside in what used to be the camp director’s office, absorbed in a game of checkers. They look surprised at her arrival, but the surprise soon turns to excitement when she tells them that she has two of Nia’s people tied up by the fence. Immediately, they’re on their feet and following her to the main gate. Lexa’s half-afraid that when they get there, Clarke and Finn will be gone, but they’re right where she left them — prostrate in the dirt, their hands and feet tied together, their faces coloured with fear. At the sight of her, they call out, and although she’s too far away to discern their words, there’s nothing else it could be but a plea for mercy. Let them plead. She doesn’t intend to listen.

She instructs Gustus and Tristan to take them back to the administration building and once they’re there, orders them separated; Clarke in the director’s office, and Finn in the waiting room. Then she sends Gustus to fetch Lincoln and Anya. She intends to question the intruders herself, but she wants the support of her closest friends while she does it.

Tristan bows out, promising to guard the door while Lexa interrogates. Left alone with her captives, she focuses her attention first on Finn.

He’s the kind of boy that wears the end of the world well — his face looks good smeared with dirt, the punk scavenger aesthetic seems to work for him, and he seems to be getting by just fine without a haircut, thanks to his well-sculpted bone structure. He even wears fear well. His eyebrows are knitted together as Lexa paces the room, his lips flattened into a thin white line, but it doesn’t detract from his good looks. He’s the kind of boy who might even make Lexa look twice, and she hasn’t played for the straight team since junior high. He’s the kind of boy that Nia likes to surround herself with, young, handsome, and probably dumb as a rock. As she studies him, Lexa finds her lip curling with disgust, and involuntarily, she shakes her head.

“You disgust me,” she tells him, earning a look of confusion.

“I’ve done nothing to you.”

Lexa resists the urge to laugh at the utter gall of his response. “Nothing?” she says scornfully. “You call breaking into my camp and raiding my supplies _nothing_? You refused our offer of a truce and chose to steal from us instead, and that’s nothing to you? Some moral code Nia’s taught you.”

“Nia?” Finn repeats. “I don’t — I’ve never heard of anyone named Nia. You’ve got it all wrong.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he says, voice growing frantic. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me and my group, alright? Alright?” She doesn’t answer, studying his face, and his hysterics increase. “My name is Finn Collins, I’m nineteen, before all of this happened I was an economics major at Ark University, I’m with a group of people—”

“Shut up,” Lexa says, and he stops. “None of that proves that you’re not one of Nia’s people. You think I care what college you went to Before? I don’t.” She fixes him with a dark look. “Let’s say I give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re not with Nia’s group. What were you doing breaking into my camp, then?”

“We didn’t know that anyone was here,” he replies earnestly. “I swear. We were camped out on the other side of the city until today. We were going somewhere else and our friend mentioned that this might be a good place to set up camp for the night. She—” He falters, growing pale. “She got hurt and couldn’t walk anymore. We were coming to look for medical supplies, but I swear, we didn’t know this place had people in it. Honestly. We were starting to think that we were the only ones left.”

Lexa purses her lips, considering. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying; the concern is evident in his voice when he speaks about his hurt friend, and his gaze doesn’t shy from hers as he explains. Her gut tells her that he’s telling the truth. It’s oddly disappointing. She’d hoped to catch Nia’s people in the act — it seems like all she’s done is catch a scared kid. But there’s always the chance that she’s wrong, so she decides to finish questioning him. She’ll get the full story from Finn and then move onto Clarke to see if they match up, and then she can decide what to do after that.

There’s a knock on the door and then it opens, Anya and Lincoln slipping in, the former looking excited, the latter apprehensive. They stop dead at the sight of Finn and Anya’s nose wrinkles with disdain.

“This guy? Really? He looks like he doesn’t even shave yet.”

“He’s not one of Nia’s,” Lexa says, ignoring the way that Finn’s face sags in relief at her words. “At least, that’s what he says. He was just about to tell me where he actually comes from, weren’t you, Finn?”

He gives an eager nod and Lexa folds her arms and leans back against the wall to listen.

“We were set up a couple of miles outside the city,” he begins, “near campus. Uh, Ark University campus. We were all students there before — anyway. We were starting to talk about moving on and finding somewhere more permanent before the winter came, and then Raven and Wick got the radio working and we heard this message.” His eyes lock onto Lexa’s and she feels her stomach sink, knowing what’s coming next. “Mount Weather safe zone, open to all who seek refuge from the dead. It seemed as good a place as any to look for help.”

“The mountain,” Anya murmurs. Lexa shushes her.

“We didn’t have any cars, and anyway, there’s no way that we would have gotten through the city in one, so we went on foot. We were taking a break in a daycare centre when the lurkers came. We fought them off, but Raven got hurt — not bit,” he says quickly, clearly noticing the looks that Anya, Lincoln and Lexa exchange, “she just got scratched by a piece of loose wood, that’s all. It’s a bad cut, though. She couldn’t walk anymore. We don’t have a lot of medicine, so we thought maybe the infirmary here would have some. They sent Clarke and me to get supplies.” He bites his lip. “Everybody else is still at the daycare. They’ll be waiting for us to get back. Raven…” He trails off, looking worried.

“How many of you are there?” Lincoln asks, before Lexa has the chance.

“Thirteen,” Finn replies immediately, and then, wincing, “Wait. Sorry. Twelve. We lost someone last night. A lurker got him.”

“And you’re heading for Mount Weather?” Lincoln pushes. Finn frowns.

“Yeah. Why are you saying it like that? Is there something we don’t know? Is… is the safe zone gone?”

“We don’t know,” Lexa says abruptly, shooting warning glares at Lincoln and Anya. “So there’s twelve of you. And you say the only reason you broke into my camp was to get medicine? Not to steal food or weapons or anything like that?”

“We have weapons,” Finn says, “and sure, food would be great, but all we came for was medical supplies. Something to clean a wound, stitch it up, bandage it. Do you have that here?” He hesitates. “Will you help us?”

Lexa studies him for a long moment before turning to Anya and speaking in a low voice.

“Watch him. He brought a girl with him, I’m going to talk to her and see if his story checks out. Don’t tell him anything about the mountain.”

She finds Clarke where she left her in the director’s office, hands and feet still bound, sitting on a worn-out swivel desk chair. She stares at Lexa, long and hard, as she lets herself into the office and closes the door behind her. Ignoring the stare, Lexa drags another desk chair into the middle of the room and positions it in front of Clarke. She sits on it with her arms resting on the back and sighs.

She intends to be the first to speak, but Clarke beats her to it.

“What are you going to do to us?”

The question surprises her. She hadn’t thought that her scare tactics had made much of an impression, but it’s obvious from the hollow resignation in Clarke’s tone that she’s waiting for something terrible to happen.

“Nothing,” Lexa says, a response that’s met with cool disbelief. She can hardly blame the girl, but after hearing Finn’s story, she means it. “Listen, I’m not in the business of hurting people who haven’t done anything to me. It looks like we’ve got a case of mistaken identities here — I’ve talked to your friend in there, and I’m pretty sure that he’s telling the truth, so once your story matches his, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” She tilts her head to the side, considering the other girl. “I’m sorry about the way you were brought in here. It was… unfortunate. There’s another group who’ve been stealing from us and we thought you were here to do the same. But like I said, if your story matches Finn’s, you’ve got nothing to be scared of. Maybe we’ll even help you out, if we’re in the position to. Alright?”

Clarke looks like she wants to hold a grudge for the way she’s been treated so far, but the offer of help is clearly too much for her to resist. Sullenly, she nods.

“Finn’s okay?” she says, testing. Lexa gives a nod and relief flashes across Clarke’s face. “Alright, then. What is it that you want to know?”

The questions are simple; Lexa runs through them quickly. How many in their group? How did they meet? Where are they staying? Which of their friends was injured, and where are they waiting for the supplies to treat the wound? Clarke’s answer to each one is the same as Finn’s, and when Lexa mentions Nia’s name, testing for signs of a reaction, there’s none. Lexa’s certain now that these people have no connection with the bandits that have been raiding Camp Polis, and although she feels somewhat guilty for the way they’ve been treated, she knows that she was right to be cautious.

When the interrogation is finished, Lexa gets to her feet and cuts the binds on Clarke’s hands and feet. The blonde rubs her wrist where the rope burned her, wincing a little. Lexa holds out a hand to help her to her feet.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” she says again, and this time, Clarke nods, grudgingly accepting the apology. “We’re all on edge here with Nia’s people raiding our stores. When I heard you and your friend outside the gate, I assumed the worst. But I’ll make it up to you by giving you the supplies to treat your friend.”

Clarke blinks at her. “You will?”

“Our infirmary is well-stocked,” Lexa says. “Nia hasn’t gotten to the medicine yet. We’ll give you whatever you need, if we’ve got some to spare.”

“Thank you,” Clarke breathes. Lexa gives a slight shrug of her shoulders in return and then hands Clarke the knife that she took from her earlier. The blonde tucks it back into her belt and then follows Lexa into the waiting room, where Finn is still bound. At Lexa’s orders, Anya and Lincoln untie him, and then he and Clarke fly into each other’s arms, clinging to one another as if they’ve been separated for years.

Lexa waits for them to break apart and then hands Finn back his weapon, apologising again for the unceremonious capture. He shrugs it off remarkably easily and then turns to Clarke, Raven’s name on his lips as he reminds her that they have to hurry. Clarke’s gaze flickers to Lexa’s, imploring.

“I’ll take you to the infirmary,” she says, addressing herself to Clarke before turning to Anya and Lincoln. “Take Finn to the pantry. Give him some supplies to take back to his friends.” When he tries to protest, Lexa silences him with a look. “You said earlier that you needed food. Take this as my apology.”

The two groups head in separate directions then, Anya, Lincoln and Finn heading for the mess hall and the pantry, and Clarke and Lexa heading for the infirmary, with an agreement to be at the main gate in ten minutes.

The infirmary is a low, concrete building on the edge of the campsite, painted a dull shade of cream and marked by the red first aid sign out front. Lexa hasn’t spent much time here — she’s always been careful not to get hurt, now more than ever, when even the slightest injury could be a death sentence. Nyko is the closest thing to a doctor in her group, and his first aid training is limited. Lexa dreads to think what would happen if anyone in camp fell seriously ill.

Nyko isn’t in the infirmary now, though, and Lexa frowns as she leads Clarke into the store room. She’d hoped that he would be here to show Clarke what she needed to treat a wound. Lexa has no idea. She soon realises, however, that Nyko’s presence is unnecessary; Clarke is sorting through the boxes and bottles with ease, clearly comfortable with the long, convoluted names and warning labels.

“My mom was a doctor,” Clarke says when she feels Lexa’s eyes on her, “and I was pre-med.” She shrugs. “It’s not the same as having an actual doctor around, but I know how to treat a wound.”

“It’s lucky,” Lexa remarks. “Your group is lucky to have you.”

Clarke holds up a bottle made with tinted blue glass, squinting at the label. “This is perfect,” she says, swinging her rucksack off her back and carefully placing the bottle inside. “Bandages? Sutures?”

“In the cupboard, I think.”

Clarke squats and starts to rummage through the cupboard that Lexa gestures to, making noises of approval as she takes in the inventory. “You weren’t kidding when you said this place was well-stocked.”

By the time Clarke gets to her feet, she’s filled her rucksack with antiseptic, bandages and cotton swabs. At Lexa’s insistence, she also takes a small surgical kit with scissors, tweezers and sutures. Once Clarke is satisfied that she has everything she’ll need to treat Raven’s wound, the two girls start to make their way to the main gate.

As they walk, Lexa can’t help but think about the mountain. Finn said that they were headed there; Clarke confirmed it. It’s not Lexa’s place to tell them where to seek refuge, but she doesn’t think she’ll be able to live with herself if she doesn’t at least try to warn them about the dangers of Mount Weather.

“So,” she says conversationally. “You’re headed for the mountain.”

“That’s the plan,” Clarke replies. “Once Raven’s back on her feet. We were hoping to get there by tomorrow, but I think a day’s rest would do her some good.” She hesitates, eyes flickering towards the darkening sky. “It’s getting dark. I’d really hoped we’d be back in the city by now.”

“Lincoln and I will go with you. We’ll get you back to your friends.”

She says it without thinking and Clarke shoots her a look, half-gratitude, half-suspicion. Unable to find a trace of ulterior motive on Lexa’s face, she seems to settle on gratitude. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Lexa says, and then, a moment later, “Mount Weather is dangerous.”

Clarke stops, a frown pulling at her lips. “Excuse me?”

Lexa explains as briefly as she can; the parties they sent there in search of help, the people who never came back, the ultimate decision that something was wrong with the so-called safe zone. Clarke listens with a furrowed brow.

“It’s dangerous, Clarke,” Lexa finishes. “People don’t come back from the mountain.”

“We have nowhere else to go. Our camp was overrun.”

“It’s safe _here_.”

She’s not sure what compels her to offer Camp Polis as a refuge for Clarke and her friends - maybe it's the fact that Clarke has medical training and they could really use that, or maybe it's the way that she's proven easy to talk to, even after Lexa tied her up and interrogated her - but the offer’s out there before she can decide if it’s the right decision. Clarke, however, doesn’t seem moved.

“You have no proof that the mountain is to blame for your missing people,” she says. She says it gently, but Lexa feels the sting of her words all the same. “They could have gotten lost on the way. Lurkers could have gotten them. There’s no evidence to suggest that Mount Weather is behind their disappearances.”

“I know it is,” Lexa says. “I can feel it.”

“Look,” Clarke says, smiling at her for the first time. It’s a pretty smile; it sends a jolt through Lexa’s stomach, an unpleasant one, because that pretty smile is directed at her with pity. “Thank you for all of your help, Lexa. Really. You can’t know what it means to me and my friends. But…” She pauses, turning thoughtful as they start walking again. “We have to at least try and make it to Mount Weather. If we don’t, we’ll always wonder if there really is a safe zone. You know it was a research compound before the outbreak, don’t you? Maybe they’re working on a cure.”

Lexa shakes her head. “I can’t explain it,” she says, “but something’s not right with Mount Weather. I can tell that I won’t convince you, though.”

Clarke smiles again. “What can I say? Pre-med. I believe in solid facts and evidence above superstition.”

“There’s space for you here, if you change your mind. Door’s open.”

They’ve reached the gate now, where Lincoln, Anya and Finn are waiting. Lexa asks Lincoln if he’s alright accompanying them to the daycare with her, and with an obliging nod, he agrees. Shouldering a bag full of canned goods, Finn smiles at Lexa.

“Thank you for your help,” he says sincerely. Then his eyebrows furrow. “Even if you did tie us up and threaten us first.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says wryly. “Anya, hold down the fort while we’re gone? Keep an eye out for Nia’s people.”

“You got it. Be careful out there,” the older girl says, looping an arm around her neck and drawing her in for a quick hug. Lexa smiles, returning the hug easily.

“I always am.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lincoln and Lexa meet the rest of Clarke's group.

It was already growing dark when Clarke and Finn approached Camp Polis — now, night has completely blanketed the woods, leaving them stumbling through the trees with little light to guide the way. They have a flashlight, but its beam is weak, and it doesn’t do much to alleviate the blackness. Because of that, they have to move carefully and keep together, so none of them gets lost amid the trees. They walk in an almost circular formation, with Clarke and Finn leading the way, and Lexa and Lincoln taking up the rear.

As she picks her way across jutting tree roots, Clarke feels a flash of gratitude towards Lexa for offering help on their journey back to the daycare. Two people in the darkness are targets; four are more capable of taking care of themselves. She’s grateful for the medicine, too. If they can just make it back to Raven, then they’ll be able to save her. She knows it.

She knows that she should probably feel a healthy dose of resentment towards Lexa, considering the fact that she bound them, held them at knifepoint, and interrogated them all while their friend was bleeding out in the city, but she can’t bring herself to hate the other girl. All she was doing was trying to protect her people. Under similar circumstances, Clarke is pretty sure that she would do the exact same. Besides, she’s more than made up for it with the food and the medicine; if Raven lives, it’s because Lexa was willing to help.

Clarke is still a little bit amazed by Lexa’s set-up at Camp Polis. It’s a functional survivors’ society; unlike Clarke and her group, camped out in tents and now self-made nomads, Lexa and her people have actually begun to build a new life for themselves. They have strong, solid walls, an infirmary, a supply of canned foods. They have a set hierarchy, from what Clarke’s seen, with Lexa acting as leader and others, like Anya and Lincoln, playing a part to keep things running smoothly. It’s the kind of thing that Clarke’s only been able to dream of so far. The kind of thing that she’s hoping to find at Mount Weather. Clarke’s people have just been surviving until now, but Lexa’s have adjusted to this new world in a way that amazes her.

Beside her, Finn bumps his hip against hers, breaking her out of her reverie. His fingers circle her wrist as he steps close, bending his mouth to her ear and speaking low so that only she can hear him.

“You think we’ll make it back in time?”

“I think so,” she replies softly, thinking of the medicine in her rucksack. “It was a bad cut, but once the others were able to stall the bleeding, we’ve got a chance. People have recovered from worse.”

In the dim light, she sees him nod. “Good.”

They’ve reached the edge of the woods now, and though they’ve still got a ways to go before they make it back to the city and the daycare, it’s a relief to leave the shadows of the trees behind. Now that they’re in a more open space, it’s safe to spread out. Finn quickens his pace to head up the group, clearly eager to get back to Raven, while Clarke does the opposite, falling back so that she’s matching Lexa step for step. The brunette is wearing a look of careful concentration, clearly ready for any threats that might come lurching at them from the shadows.

“Do you come to the city a lot?” Clarke asks, curious.

“Not personally,” Lexa says. Her tone is absent, as though she’s detached from the conversation, though Clarke thinks that has more to do with watching out for danger than a desire to ignore Clarke’s question. “We have groups that come to scavenge, every week or so, but there’s not much left to take. And we don’t send groups out so much anymore since the trucks at camp ran out of gas. Mostly I stick to the woods and the area around camp. I hunt. That’s my contribution.”

“Your contribution is more than that,” Lincoln murmurs, just a step behind them, but Lexa just shrugs. Lincoln looks to Clarke, exasperation plain on his features even in the darkness. “She’s modest, but don’t let her fool you. She’s the one who brought our people together. She looks after us. It’s like she was born for it.”

“I wasn’t,” Lexa says irritably. “No one was _born_ for this.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lincoln says, but the damage is done. Lexa’s shoulders are tense, her face stony. She speeds up until she’s almost level with Finn, leaving Clarke and Lincoln trailing behind her. Lincoln’s eyes meet Clarke’s. “That’s _not_ what I meant.”

Unsure of how to respond, Clarke shrugs, and they walk on in silence.

They run into a group of lurkers just outside the city, and despite the burden of the darkness, they manage to dispatch them with ease. Clarke is too busy defending herself to pay too much attention to what Lexa and Lincoln are doing, but she sees flashes. Ducking to avoid the gaping mouth of one of the lurkers, she sees Lincoln beheading another with the axe he carries at his belt. As she drives her knife into the skull of a corpse dressed in the tatters of a firefighter’s uniform, Clarke catches sight of Lexa taking down a crossing guard, a police officer, an emaciated lurker wearing suburban housewife florals that look distinctly unsettling coupled with rotting skin and an eye that dangles from its socket. Lexa’s face remains stony and passive as she dispatches the dead. Clarke and Finn hold their own with the lurkers, like they always do, but in the end it’s Lexa and Lincoln who take care of most of them, and once the area’s been cleared, they’re instantly composed.

It’s then that Clarke thinks she knows what Lincoln meant about Lexa being born for this. She doesn’t know what Lexa was before the world went to hell, but now she’s a warrior. Lincoln, too. Since everything changed, Clarke’s looked at everyone’s death as a foregone conclusion; it’s just a matter of time until their clock runs out. When she sees Lincoln and Lexa fight, the clock seems limitless.

They fall silent and quicken their pace once they’re in the city, partly because Clarke and Finn are eager to get back to their friends, and partly because they don’t want to run into any more lurkers. At long last, Clarke sees the low building of the daycare looming in front of them, and by some kind of miracle, there are no lurkers outside. Out front, at least — but they have to go through the back entrance, and there’s no guaranteeing that that’s clear as well. She signals to Lexa until the other girl draws near.

“That’s it,” she says, inclining her head towards the building. “We barricaded the front door before we left so that the lurkers couldn’t get inside, but there should still be a way in through the back.”

“So we go through the back,” Lexa says, frowning slightly as she scans the area around the daycare. “Is there enough room back there for all four of us to get in at once?”

Clarke shakes her head. “We had to block the door there too. Finn and I went one at a time when we were leaving.”

“So we go one at a time. You’re the priority — you’ve got the meds. We get you in first, the rest of us will follow. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Clarke says. She hesitates. “Lexa, you’re not going back to Camp Polis tonight, right?”

Lexa blinks. “I figured we’d take a quick rest stop and then head home.”

“It’s dangerous,” Clarke says. “The two of you shouldn’t be out here by yourself in the dark. Stay in the daycare for tonight.” At Lexa’s hesitation, she presses on. “We’re moving on tomorrow anyway. Your camp is on our route to Mount Weather. We could look out for each other.”

Lexa looks at her, considering. “Let’s just get your friend fixed up first, okay?”

Before Clarke can argue with her, she signals to Finn and Lincoln and starts directing them in hushed tones. Then they’re moving towards the daycare, Clarke heading the group and the others covering her. As they approach, she can see the door that she and Finn came through when they left. It’s hanging off its hinges slightly, but it’s still sturdy enough that it takes Clarke a few moments of wrenching to get it to open. She steps into the building, motioning for the others to follow, and then calls tentatively down the hall.

“Bellamy?”

There’s a moment of silence where Clarke’s heart seizes and she wonders if the door was hanging off the hinges when they left, or if it happened in their absence. What if they’re too late? What if Raven is dead? What if lurkers attacked while they were gone?

It’s the longest moment of her life, but at last, a voice calls back, sounding weary and broken, but definitely alive.

“In the main classroom, Clarke.”

She half-walks, half-runs down the corridor, not bothering to check if Lexa, Lincoln and Finn are following, until she finds herself back in the room where they fought off the dead just a few hours ago. She scans the room immediately, taking inventory of everyone, and breathes a sigh of relief when she realises that everyone’s still there. They’re alive, even Raven — pale-faced and looking as though she might fall asleep at any moment, but she’s still alive, and that means that Clarke has a chance to save her. She heads straight for the other girl, not bothering to explain what took so long. She’ll leave that to Finn.

Raven is still set up on the table where she lay when Clarke and Finn left, her leg propped up on a burst cushion decorated to look like a building block. Jasper, Monty, Miller and Wick surround the table, but they scatter at Clarke’s approach, stepping back to let her do her work. Clarke’s never moved so fast in her life. She drops to her knees and swings off her rucksack, tearing through it in search of the supplies that they took from Camp Polis. As she retrieves the antiseptic, she looks up at Raven, pausing just for a moment to offer a warning.

“This is going to hurt,” she tells her, “but it’s going to be worth it, okay?”

Too weak to respond, Raven simply nods. Figuring that that’s as much of a go-ahead as she’s going to get, Clarke applies the medicine to the wound, gritting her teeth and carrying on even when Raven lets out a shriek of pain. She applies more than she probably should, but she figures that in this case, too much is better than too little. It’s been a while since the leg was cut, and anything that Clarke can do to kill the chance of infection, she’ll do.

When she’s reasonably satisfied that the wound is clean, she starts to apply the sutures from the surgical kit. The entire time, she can feel Raven’s body shaking with sobs, but to her credit, she manages to hold her leg still through the pain. Clarke murmurs soothing nonsense to her as she works, hardly even sure of the words that she’s saying. All she knows is that the sound of her voice seems to calm Raven, at least a little bit, and then it’s finally time for her to wrap the leg in a bandage.

After what seems like a lifetime, she sits back on her haunches and wipes the sweat from her brow. Her job is done; they won’t know until tomorrow if she’s managed to save Raven from an infection, but she thinks that the odds are good. Breathing heavily, she gets to her feet, and it’s only then that she notices Lexa and Lincoln hovering by the door, under suspicious scrutiny from the members of the group who aren’t enthralled by Clarke’s bandaging of Raven’s wound.

“Hey,” she says, somehow managing to project her voice with some kind of authority even as exhaustion threatens to overwhelm her. “You don’t have to be afraid of them. They helped us. They’re the ones who gave us the stuff for Raven’s wound.”

“Who are they?” Bellamy asks.

“Is she going to be okay?” Finn asks at the same time, advancing on Raven and folding her fingers inside of his. She’s sleeping now, chest rising and falling with a steadiness that makes Clarke feel hopeful for her chances.

“I think so. We won’t know until the morning.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, “who are these people?”

She introduces Lexa and Lincoln, wisely deciding to leave out the part where they bound her and Finn and held them hostage, focusing instead on how generous they’ve been with their supplies. She’s not sure if her glowing character references convince the others — Bellamy still looks suspicious, and Clarke doesn’t like the way that Murphy looks at Lexa, but the others seem mollified at Clarke’s insistence that they’re on their side. Once the questions come to a halt, Clarke makes her way over to Lexa, who looks distinctly uncomfortable. She reminds Clarke of a startled animal, ready to bolt at any second.

“I wanted to thank you,” Clarke says, looking over her shoulder at Raven, who’s surrounded now by Wick, Finn, Jasper and Octavia. “I don’t know if she’s going to be okay or not, but I think she’s got a shot. And that’s thanks to you. You didn’t have to help us, but you did. So, thank you. Really. _Thank you_.”

Lexa shrugs, her discomfort plain on her face. “We owed it to you,” she says. “After what we did to you.”

“Whether you owed it to us or not, I’m still grateful. I won’t forget it.”

Lexa looks at her for a long moment and then gives a slow nod. Then she looks back at Lincoln, some silent communication passing between them.

“We should go,” Lexa says, but Clarke is already shaking her head.

“No. I meant what I said out there — I don’t care how good you are at surviving, it’s too dangerous for the two of you to go all the way back to Camp Polis in the dark. We’re heading that way tomorrow. We can help each other.” Noticing the flicker of uncertainty on Lexa’s face, she presses further. “Please. Let us help. You’ve done so much for us, now let us do something for you.”

Beside Lexa, Lincoln clears his throat.

“She’s right about the darkness,” he says. “There’s safety in numbers. Staying the night is wise.”

“Nia’s people—”

“Nia’s people have made it into camp countless times with all of us there,” Lincoln points out. “The two of us being absent for one night isn’t going to make any difference. I know you don’t want to leave them without your protection, but _think_ , Lexa. You’re no use to anyone if you get mauled by a biter on the way back home.”

Lexa bites her lip, but to Clarke’s relief, she relents. She and Lincoln set themselves up in a corner of the classroom, a little ways away from the rest of Clarke’s group, and Clarke retreats to give them some privacy. Lexa still seems uncomfortable around the others, and she can hardly blame her; Murphy’s doing little to disguise the suspicion on his face, and even Clarke’s more levelheaded friends like Bellamy and Miller are watching the two newcomers with a level of wariness. She’s a little bit relieved when they offer to take on guard duty, taking their attention away from Lincoln and Lexa for a while, though Murphy remains in his solitary corner, staring at them with undisguised distrust.

It’s Murphy’s suspicion that worries Clarke the most. She recalls earlier today — it seems like a lifetime ago — when Murphy almost shot Raven. It’s something they can’t ignore. They’re going to have to talk about it, and decide whether or not Murphy remaining with the group is a good decision. It’s not a discussion that she’s looking forward to, and she resolves to leave it for the morning, when they’re all feeling more clear-headed. In the meantime, she sees to it that the food that Lincoln and Lexa gave them is distributed fairly, and then she makes her way over to Raven’s makeshift sickbed. Raven is sleeping, worn out from blood loss and pain, no doubt, but her friends still surround her, unwilling to leave her side just in case she wakes up.

“Hey,” Clarke says softly, crouching down beside Wick in the space that the others have shifted to make for her. “How are you doing?”

Wick’s hand is clasped tightly around Raven’s, his forehead creased with worry. His eyes are fixed on her sleeping form, gaze flickering only briefly to Clarke’s at the sound of her voice. He gives the smallest of shrugs and tightens his grip on Raven’s fingers.

“Been better,” he says dully. “I should’ve been able to help her. I should’ve been able to stop it.”

Clarke can’t quite remember where Wick was when Raven injured her leg. Everything was happening so quickly, she can hardly remember what she was doing, let alone anyone else. But she knows what Wick is feeling right now — it’s the same thing that she felt when she saw Wells crumple to the ground with blood spraying from his throat. No matter how impossible it would have been for him to stop this, Wick’s going to blame himself for not being able to, anyway. It’s the curse of caring about someone. Clarke reaches out and grasps his shoulder, squeezing it in an attempt at comfort.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” she says. “It was a freak accident, Wick. No one could have seen it coming and no one could have done anything to stop it. So stop blaming yourself, alright?”

He nods, though she doesn’t think he believes her. “Hey, Clarke?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s gonna be okay, right?”

“Raven’s a fighter,” Clarke says, since she can’t actually answer his question. Wick nods again and then closes his eyes, bringing Raven’s hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Feeling oddly as if she’s intruding on something, Clarke gets to her feet and motions for the others to follow. “Come on, guys, let’s leave her alone. There should probably only be one person with her when she wakes.”

They split off their separate ways, Finn and Jasper heading for Fox and Monroe, who are sitting by the door with their heads bent close in discussion, and Clarke and Octavia taking a seat at a table near the middle of the room. Clarke can’t help but notice Octavia’s gaze drifting to the corner where Lexa and Lincoln sit. She raises an eyebrow and when Octavia’s eyes meet hers, she just smirks.

“What did you say his name was, again?” she asks, leaning forward on her elbows and inclining her head slightly in Lincoln’s direction.

“Lincoln.”

“He’s cute.”

“Really, Octavia?” Clarke says, though despite the circumstances, an amused smile is tugging at her lips. “You’re thinking about cute boys _now_?”

Octavia shrugs. “You’re the one who brought him here. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got a lot of options here, is it?” She casts her gaze around the room, lingering on each of the boys for a moment, and then wrinkles her nose. “It’s the end of the world, Clarke. Live a little.”

“I’m living,” Clarke says automatically. Octavia shakes her head.

“You’re surviving. There’s a difference.” She gets to her feet, brushing dirt off of her jeans. “ _I’m_ going to go and live a little.”

She heads in Lincoln’s direction, and Clarke shakes her head as she sees her turn on the infallible Blake charm to introduce herself. Charm is something both Bellamy and Octavia have in spades. It can be oddly enthralling to watch them around new people — now, Clarke is so busy watching Octavia that she doesn’t notice Lexa approaching her until she’s right beside her table, expression unreadable.

“Can I sit?”

“Sure,” Clarke says, using her foot to push Octavia’s vacated chair closer to Lexa. The other girl takes it, looking over at Lincoln and Octavia with something resembling exasperation.

“Your friend is flirting with Lincoln.”

“She calls it ‘living’,” Clarke tells her. Lexa’s annoyance surprises her and she wonders suddenly if Lincoln and Lexa are more than friends and allies. “Oh — are you two…?” The question trails off, hanging awkwardly between them until Lexa realises what she means and lets out a burst of laughter.

“God, no. He’s missing some essential equipment for me.” At Clarke’s blank look, she laughs again. “I’m gay, Clarke.”

“But it bothers you that Octavia is flirting with him?”

Lexa frowns. “It doesn’t bother me, but it… concerns me.” She sighs. “Everything seems so sped up now. People used to dance around each other for weeks or months, just flirting or living or whatever you want to call it, but that doesn’t happen anymore. I’ve seen it in my camp — people rush into things because they don’t feel like they’ve got a whole lot of time left. They throw themselves headfirst into caring for someone. Things like that can get you killed.”

“Caring about someone?”

“When you care about someone, you’ll do anything for them,” Lexa says softly. “Your survival isn’t the priority anymore, theirs is. It’s nothing personal against your friend, but I can’t afford to lose Lincoln to that. I don’t want to.”

“It’s just flirting.”

“For now.” Lexa’s still watching Lincoln and Octavia, sitting close together now and talking quietly. “But like I said, things are sped up now. Surely you’ve noticed that, too.”

Clarke studies the other girl’s face, dimly lit in the glow of the candles that have been set up throughout the daycare. She’s not much older than Clarke, but the serious set of her features make her appear older than she really is. There’s solemnity behind her eyes, and concern for her friend, and something that Clarke doesn’t think she would have noticed before Wells died — loss.

“You lost someone, didn’t you?” she asks. Lexa’s eyes meet hers, a wry smile turning up her lips.

“Haven’t we all?”

Clarke is silent for a moment, thinking on Lexa’s words as she looks around the room at her group. She understands where the other girl is coming from, in a sense. Relationships are certainly different from the way they used to be. Raven and Wick are living proof of that; friends before the world ended who couldn’t spit out their feelings for one another, and yet now it’s rare to see one without the other. She gets the feeling that Miller and Monty are headed in that direction, as well. She’s seen the way they look at one another. But even if she agrees with Lexa that flirting and dating are a thing of the past, she doesn’t subscribe to her theory that that’s necessarily a bad thing. Lexa thinks that caring for someone can get you killed, but Clarke’s pretty sure that caring for someone is a reason to survive.

“You’ve got a pretty cynical world view,” she tells Lexa, earning another laugh in response, though this one is edged with bitterness.

“Just going off of personal experience,” Lexa says. She yawns, stretching. “I think I’m going to turn in for the night. Unless you want Lincoln and me to take guard duty for a while?” Bellamy and Miller have been on watch for a while now and are probably due a break, but Clarke shakes her head. Lincoln and Lexa have done enough for them — they should get their rest.

“No, you go to bed. We’ve got this.”

“Alright. Goodnight.” Lexa gets to her feet and starts to make her way back over to Lincoln, but Clarke reaches out to catch her sleeve, making her pause. She looks down at Clarke’s fingers grasped around her shirt and then meets Clarke’s gaze, her eyebrows raising slightly.

“Thank you,” Clarke says again. She releases the other girl, a sight blush colouring her features at her forwardness in grabbing her.

“You said that already,” Lexa points out.

“I wanted to say it again,” Clarke replies, tilting her chin up. They stare at each other for a moment, both unsure of what else to say, until finally Clarke looks away with a cough. “Okay. Goodnight.”

Lexa nods. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

When she’s gone, Clarke relieves Bellamy of his watch duty, knowing that her mind is too full of worries for her to be able to get any sleep. She settles herself against the doorframe at the front entrance of the daycare, Murphy’s confiscated gun resting in her lap and her knife strapped securely to her waist, and resigns herself to a long night of watching.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey home begins for Lincoln and Lexa, and Clarke has to make a decision about Murphy.

Lexa sleeps fitfully that night. She probably would have under any circumstances, considering everything that’s going on with Nia and Echo, but she still attributes some of her uneasiness to the face that she’s surrounded by strangers in a building that’s already been proven vulnerable to the biters. She can’t quite gauge Clarke’s group accurately — some seem like good, decent people, but there are others who watch her with thinly veiled suspicion and distrust. The boy with the wide-set eyes and long dark hair makes her uncomfortable. He reminds her of a shark, just waiting for the first scent of blood in the water to attack.

She hears Clarke’s group swapping watch shifts during the night, keeps her eyes closed as low murmurs of conversation reach her ears. No one attempts to wake her or Lincoln to help out, do their part. She supposes that they’re not trusted. She doesn’t blame them.

Still, part of her longs to be asked, because at least watching would be better than constantly falling in and out of sleep, jolting awake after flashes of nightmares in which her people are bloody and broken, because of her. By the time early morning light starts to filter in through the blocked-up windows, Lexa’s come to the conclusion that leadership may be taking its toll on her. But leadership wasn’t a mantle she chose, and it’s not one she can discard in good conscience, either, so she shakes off the thoughts and feigns waking up, stretching out her arms with a mock yawn.

Beside her, Lincoln stirs, and beside him, Clarke’s dark-haired friend with the flirty demeanour. Octavia. Lexa watches out of the corner of her eye as Lincoln and Octavia murmur together, a feeling of foreboding knotting her stomach. There’s something about the smirk on Lincoln’s face, the way his eyes glance over Octavia’s body, that makes her uncomfortable. She’s afraid of losing her level-headed right-hand man to the accelerated relationships that seem to make up this new world. She knows that she can’t say anything, though, so she gets to her feet without a word and makes her way over to Clarke.

The blonde girl is awake, lying on her back with one arm slung behind her head and a troubled expression on her face. She appears lost in thought, and Lexa would almost feel bad about disturbing her, but she needs to know what the plan is for the day. She and Lincoln have to get back to Camp Polis as soon as possible, but Clarke was right the night before — it makes sense for the groups to travel together, at least some of the way.

“Morning,” Lexa says softly. Clarke’s eyes snap to hers, the pensive expression slipping away to be replaced with a soft smile.

“Good morning,” she says, holding up a hand so that Lexa can help her to her feet. Clarke’s hand is calloused and rough in a way that makes Lexa think it was that way even Before; like there was something she liked to do with her hands, back when there was time for hobbies. Maybe she was a musician, or an artist. Lexa makes a mental note to ask her about it. For now, though, there are more important things to worry about.

“Anything happen during the night?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Nothing to report. No lurkers, no other groups. It was pretty quiet.”

“And your friend?”

Clarke’s gaze flickers over Lexa’s shoulder to the table where Raven still lies, chest rising slowly with each breath. “I was just about to check on her, actually,” Clarke says. It sounds like she’s steeling herself for the worst. “I’ll be right back.”

She starts to thread her way through the tables scattered haphazardly through the room. Lexa leans against the table where Clarke made her bed for the night and watches with folded arms. There’s something a little voyeuristic about watching Clarke take Raven’s pulse and feel her forehead, but Lexa doesn’t feel too guilty — the others have started to wake, and all eyes are on the examination taking place in the centre of the room. The blond boy who Lexa thinks is Raven’s boyfriend is positioned by her side, eyes flickering rapidly from Clarke to Raven and back again. After a few moments, Raven stirs, and even from this distance, Lexa can see the relief that washes over Clarke’s face.

When the blonde girl makes her way back over to Lexa, she’s beaming.

“She’s going to be okay,” Clarke says. “She said that the leg hurts, but she doesn’t have a fever, she’s coherent… I think she’s going to be just fine.” To Lexa’s surprise, Clarke suddenly throws her arms around her and squeezes tight, burying her face in Lexa’s neck. “It’s all thanks to you. Lexa, you have no idea what this means. _Thank_ you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Lexa returns the embrace, hands resting tentatively on the small of Clarke’s back. “It was nothing,” she murmurs, swallowing back a lump in her throat and trying to ignore the way that her heartbeat quickened at Clarke’s touch. “It was the decent thing to do, don’t thank me.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” Clarke says firmly, giving one last squeeze before releasing Lexa and stepping back to meet her eyes. “I owe you. We all do. Anything you want from us, it’s yours.”

Lexa pauses. “Anything?”

“Anything you want,” Clarke repeats.

“You’re still determined to go to Mount Weather?” Lexa says, earning a nod in response. “I won’t try and convince you otherwise. I’ve already said my piece, and I respect the decision you’ve made for your group… but if you make it to the mountain, could you keep an eye out for my people?” She hesitates. “We sent groups out there before. A lot of them. And we’ve had people try to find it by themselves, but we’ve never heard anything back. Just… if you make it, can you try and get some kind of message to Camp Polis to let me know that they’re okay?” She sighs. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“If we make it there and find your people, I’ll make sure you know about it,” Clarke promises. “It’s the least that I can do for you after you saved Raven.”

“Thank you,” Lexa says, hoping the sincerity in her voice is clear. Flashes of her dreams from the night before return to her and she swallows. “There’s one girl in particular, Echo. She’s a year or two older than me. It hasn’t been long since she left camp.”

It’s not like she’s actually holding out any hope of Clarke and her people making it to Mount Weather. The mountain is a pipe dream, that’s a lesson that Lexa’s learned over and over again, at great cost, but if there’s even the smallest possibility… well, Lexa will take any chance she can get at finding her missing people.

“I’ll do my best to find her,” Clarke says, and Lexa nods, satisfied.

The rest of Clarke’s group are starting to move now, gathering in pairs and trios and talking amongst themselves about their route for the day. The tall boy with the freckles and the dark hair approaches Clarke and Lexa, watching Lexa somewhat warily.

“We need to make a plan, Clarke,” he says quietly, and Clarke nods, immediately slipping into cool-headed leader mode. Lexa recognises the shift; she’s done it enough times herself.

“First thing’s first,” Clarke says, and then, raising her voice and turning, “Raven. Do you think you’re up to walking today?” Before the other girl can respond, she holds up a hand. “Don’t be a martyr here, okay? If you need a day or two to rest, we can do that. There’s no point in messing up your leg any worse by trying to be brave.”

“I can do it,” Raven says. At Clarke’s raised eyebrow, she sighs. “I _can_. It hurts a little, but if we take it slow, I can walk. I swear. I’ll even tell you if it hurts too much, Doc.”

“Alright then. So we’re going to start moving on. We’re going to take the route through the woods, down by Camp Polis,” Clarke says, glancing back at Lexa. “Lexa and Lincoln are going to come with us that far.” The announcement causes some murmurs amongst the group, but Clarke shuts them down without missing a beat, to Lexa’s appreciation. “Safety in numbers, guys. And remember, we owe them. They saved Raven’s life.”

There’s a finality to her words that stops anyone from arguing. They start to gather up their belongings and then the freckled boy looks to Clarke once more.

“So we’ll set out in a few minutes, then?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, looking to Lexa for any signs of disagreement. When she finds none, she nods. The boy makes to move away towards his sister, still sitting in the corner with Lincoln, but Clarke catches his sleeve, holding him there. “Bellamy. We have to talk about Murphy.”

Discomfort flashes across Bellamy’s face, coupled with traces of distrust as he looks back at Lexa. She should probably excuse herself — there’s clearly some sort of group issue that they need to sort out, but she finds herself standing her ground. If Clarke asks her to leave, she will, but until the blonde girl thinks it necessary, she’s content to stay where she is. When it becomes clear that Lexa’s not going to take his hints to go, Bellamy sighs.

“I know we do,” he says, “but I don’t think now is the best time, Clarke.”

“Now is the only time,” Clarke says. “With any luck, we’re going to make it to Mount Weather by the end of the day. We have to decide if we want Murphy to be there or not when we make it.”

Lexa’s not entirely sure of the names of all of Clarke’s group, but she thinks she knows which one Murphy is — the boy with the wide-set eyes, who has done nothing to disguise his suspicion of Lexa and Lincoln since their arrival at the daycare. He’s watching them now, eyes narrowed and lip curled as he sharpens a knife blade. Lexa’s gaze lingers on him momentarily and a shiver runs down her spine. There’s something about him that doesn’t sit right with her.

“Leaving him out here alone is a death sentence,” Bellamy says quietly. “I don’t know if I want that on my conscience.”

“Bringing him with us could be a death sentence for someone else. You saw how close he came to shooting Raven. What happens the next time you get hurt, Bellamy? What about Octavia?”

“We took his gun.”

Bellamy’s tone is growing agitated, drawing the attention of the others in the daycare, Murphy included. Keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Murphy, Lexa lays a hand on Clarke’s arm.

“I don’t want to intrude,” she says, “but I don’t think you want everyone getting involved in this discussion. I think your friend is right. It can wait.”

Following Lexa’s gaze, Clarke stiffens at the sight of Murphy staring at them and gives a slow nod. “Alright,” she says. “You’re right.” She catches Bellamy’s wrist again when he makes to move. “But we have to talk about it, Bellamy. It can’t go unanswered.”

He nods silently, tight-lipped, and moves over to Octavia. Clarke turns back to Lexa with a sigh, the weariness on her face making her look much older than she is.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks.

“Murphy gives me the creeps,” Clarke mutters. She reaches down and shoulders her backpack. When she straightens up again, the weariness on her face is gone, replaced with a careful mask of composure. When she speaks, it’s to the group at large. “Alright, people. Let’s get moving.”

Lexa assumes that she’ll fall into step with Lincoln once they start to make their way through the city, but even long after they’ve left the daycare, he remains attached to Octavia, deep in conversation. Lexa’s not the only one that’s irritated by their sudden closeness, it seems; Bellamy glowers at them before striding ahead to walk with Raven, supporting her alongside Wick when her step falters. Lexa ends up taking up the rear of the group, walking alone until an unwanted companion appears by her side — Murphy.

She doesn’t offer him anything in the way of greeting, and neither does he, at first. The rest of the group are talking, voices low to avoid attracting any nearby biters, but they’re talking nonetheless. Not Lexa and Murphy. They walk in silence for some time, until Murphy clears his throat, and Lexa braces herself for whatever’s about to come.

“You were talking about me,” he says conversationally. Lexa gives a non-committal shrug.

“I don’t know you,” she says. He laughs, but there’s no humour in it.

“Alright, maybe you don’t. But you know Clarke. What was she saying about me?”

“It’s none of my business,” Lexa says, longing to stride ahead and get away from him.

“Listen,” Murphy says, getting closer to her so that she can practically smell his breath. Lexa understands Clarke’s earlier discomfort — there’s something about the guy that makes her skin crawl. “They can’t kick me out, alright? I made a mistake, but I was only trying to protect everyone. I thought she was bit. You get that, right? Right?”

His tone is growing hysterical, and Lexa is growing uncomfortable.

“It’s none of my business,” she repeats. She quickens her pace, jerking her arm away when Murphy tries to grab it, until she’s walking side-by-side with Clarke and Finn. Clarke gives her a sidelong glance, something like concern flashing across her face.

“You okay?” When Lexa doesn’t respond, she presses her lips together tightly and looks over her shoulder. “Murphy?”

“What did he do?” Lexa asks. Clarke hesitates and then turns to face the group at large.

“We’re going to take a quick break,” she calls out. At the sounds of dissent, she stands her ground. “Raven needs to rest that leg. Ten minutes, don’t wander far, and for God’s sake, nobody goes anywhere by themselves.” Her piece said, she takes Lexa by the arm and leads her over to the side of the road, where there’s a little more privacy to talk.

She starts by telling Lexa how Murphy came to be with the group in the first place. She knows some of the story already, from talking to Clarke and Finn back at Camp Polis — they were all holed up in the university together, students who were caught off-guard by the initial outbreak. Murphy, Clarke tells her, was a law student, known on campus for being hot-headed and unpredictable. He’d been camped out in the student canteen by himself, fighting off the dead and attempting to escape, when help came in the form of Bellamy, Miller and Octavia. Murphy saved Bellamy’s life as they tried to get out of the canteen — that, Lexa decides, explains Bellamy’s unwillingness to vote him out of the group. Over the next couple of weeks, the rest of Clarke’s group slowly came together, and even though none of them really liked Murphy as a person, he was a good fighter, brave, and valuable.

Then she tells her about Murphy’s quick temper; his panic and paranoia, the part of him that makes him flip instantly at the sight of blood and claim that the victim’s been bitten. He’s been right in the past, according to Clarke, but yesterday he was wrong, and they just barely managed to stop him from acting on the paranoia. If they hadn’t managed to talk him down, Raven would be dead — all for the sake of a scratched leg. Lexa’s eyes flicker over to where Raven is resting, laughing with Wick and Fox, her face full of life, and a shudder runs down her spine at the thought of what could have been.

In times like these, acting rashly is dangerous. Lexa understands Murphy’s fear, but she can’t even begin to try and understand his reasoning behind shooting someone who isn’t confirmed to be infected. These days, life is more precious than ever. Shooting someone based on a theory isn’t just cruel, it’s downright stupid.

“I don’t know what to do,” Clarke says. “Bellamy’s right about leaving him out here. Without people to watch his back, he hasn’t got a chance. But I don’t know if I can trust him around the others after what happened yesterday.” Her eyes meet Lexa’s, troubled. “What would you do, if it was your group?”

Lexa hesitates. She knows that when it comes down to it, she will always make the choice that protects the most of her people, but she doesn’t feel right giving Clarke that advice. The choice to leave Murphy behind rings with finality. To do it, Clarke would have to accept that she’s signing his death warrant. In this new world, they’ve all had to get used to the concept of death hovering around them at all times, but it’s another thing entirely to accept responsibility for the death of a living, breathing human.

“I don’t know,” Lexa says at last, but she’s sure that Clarke can tell she’s lying. “You’ve got to go with your gut, I guess.”

Clarke nods, still looking uncertain. “If I make him leave,” she says, “that’s it, isn’t it? He won’t survive.”

“Probably not,” Lexa admits. She toys with the end of her sleeve, a nervous habit that she can’t quite seem to shed, and then notices Murphy heading for them, stone-faced. She straightens up a little, assuming a defensive stance without even realising it. “Clarke.”

The tension radiating from Murphy is evident even before he grows near, and Lexa feels an inexplicable need to step in front of Clarke to shield her from it. She doesn’t; the way that Clarke straightens her back and tenses her shoulders says that she doesn’t need anyone to protect her. Unsettling as Murphy is, he’s just a boy, and they’ve taken his weapons from him. Clarke has a gun and a knife. If he tries anything, she’ll be able to defend herself. But it doesn’t seem like fighting is what Murphy has in mind, anyway, at least not right away. It’s a conversation he wants, and it seems as though Clarke is going to have to make the decision about his future now, whether she wants to or not.

“Murphy,” Clarke says, but he speaks over her.

“Listen,” he says, that single word containing so much venom that Clarke physically flinches, “whatever it is you’re going to do, get it over with. I’m sick of you sneaking around talking about me behind my back. Am I in or am I out, Clarke?”

His outburst has drawn the attention of the rest of the group. The easy, relaxed atmosphere that settled over them during their quick rest stop has vanished almost instantly. Lexa’s eyes are trained on Murphy, but in her peripheral vision she sees Miller and Bellamy drawing close, watching Murphy like he’s some kind of animal preparing to attack. Everyone is instantly on edge. Hands are braced, ready to reach for weapons if necessary. Lexa realises that unconsciously, she’s also reached for the knife at her hip, ready to draw it if Murphy makes any sudden movements.

“Murphy,” Clarke says again, soothingly, “just calm down, alright? We don’t have to make any rash decisions right now.”

_But you do,_ Lexa thinks, a burst of sympathy erupting in her chest. _This boy is a time bomb. If you don’t give him an ultimatum, he’s going to blow, and then it will be on your shoulders if anyone gets caught in the crossfire._

“Clarke’s right, Murphy,” Bellamy says. “Let’s concentrate on getting to Mount Weather, yeah?”

“So you can turn me away at the door?” Murphy says, his voice rising to an almost hysterical pitch. “Bring me all the way to safety and then tell them that I’m dangerous, and that they shouldn’t let me in because I’m a threat?” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Fuck no. Decide. In or out, Clarke?”

There’s a beat of silence as Clarke stares at Murphy, jaw slackened, clearly caught off guard. “I,” she says, and then shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“ _In or out, Clarke?_ ”

“I don’t know!” she says, a note of desperation entering her voice. Murphy squares his shoulders and looks like he’s gearing up for a fight, and that’s when Lexa steps in.

Clarke is too close to this; so are the rest of her group. Maybe Murphy is too dangerous to stay with them, or maybe he’s just overly cautious, but what’s clear is that Clarke’s not ready to make any decisions about his future with the group just yet, and he’s too emotional to listen to reason right now. They all need to take a step back, calm down, and assess the situation. Preferably somewhere safe, with closed walls, where biters can’t creep up on them if the discussion gets too heated. Preferably when Lincoln and Lexa are back home.

Murphy’s a time bomb. Lexa needs to diffuse him, or at the very least, delay the detonation.

“I think you should step back,” she tells Murphy. She earns a sneer in response.

“This isn’t your concern,” he says.

“I don’t care,” Lexa says flatly. “You’re getting worked up and that’s putting the rest of us at risk. Do you want to attract biters?” At his sullen look, she shakes her head. “Calm down, or I’ll make you calm down.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but she doesn’t realise it until the words have left her mouth. Murphy’s an attack dog, waiting to pounce. Her words are just the challenge he needs. The moment she finishes speaking, he lets loose with a stream of insults and threats and advances on her, bringing them almost chest-to-chest. He raises one clenched fist, ready to swing, and then all hell breaks loose.

The others are shouting, warning him away from her and telling her to leave it, to back off. Raven is trying to struggle forward on her wounded leg, though how she could possibly help, Lexa doesn’t know. Clarke is tugging at the back of Lexa’s jacket, urging her out of Murphy’s space even as he advances on her, fists swinging. But Lexa stands her ground, even as Bellamy and Miller advance on Murphy, grabbing him by the shoulders and wrenching him back so that he can’t get at her. Murphy resists, earning a small portion of Lexa’s admiration for the way he struggles against the other two boys. He’s determined, that much is clear, but it won’t pay off for him this time. Bellamy and Miller have got him under control. They hold him until his rage dissipates, and he deflates against them, breathing heavily and holding his fists still half-clenched at his sides.

“What the hell, man,” Miller says in a low voice, looking at Murphy with thinly veiled disgust. The rest of the group are looking at him with similar expressions. There’s an electricity in the air.

The whole confrontation lasted a matter of minutes, but it changes everything. Lexa can feel it.

“We don’t attack humans,” Clarke says fiercely, staring at Murphy where he slumps against Bellamy and Miller. Her face is set, her mind made up. “We _don’t_.”

Murphy looks up at her, defeat and defiance mingling on his face.

“What’s it gonna be, Clarke?” he asks. His voice is hollow, but hers, when she makes the announcement, is steady and definite.

They leave him with enough rations to last the day. Lexa’s not sorry to see him go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa and Lincoln go back to Camp Polis, while Clarke and her group continue on their way to Mount Weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there's some graphic content in this one, so proceed with caution. Let's just say if you're not a fan of gory post-apocalyptic medical procedures, you should be wary.

The atmosphere is different when they leave Murphy behind. They’re all worried that the commotion might bring the dead down upon them, so they walk almost in silence, as if being quiet now will cancel out the shouting from before. Clarke feels the decision to leave Murphy like a weight on her shoulders, pressing down harder and harder with every step that she takes. Murphy is volatile, there’s no question about that, but he’s still a human being, and he has his good qualities, too. Even though she knows that she made the right call, she can’t stop thinking about the reproachful look in his eyes when they walked away, or his last words to her.

_Clarke Griffin. Judge, jury, executioner._

They stung worse than any physical blow he could have dealt her. She never asked to be the leader of the group, never wanted the responsibility that came with it. Now more than ever, she wishes that she didn’t have that responsibility.

The others keep their distance from her as they continue their journey. Clarke knows why; they’re uncomfortable with the decision she made. Not that any of them argued for Murphy to stay. Even Miller, arguably the member of the group Murphy was closest to, remained silent when the fatal moment came. Clarke doesn’t hold their discomfort against them, though. Murphy’s words stung, but they weren’t wrong. She knows that she’s sent him to his death. She also knows that in doing so, she protected the rest of her group from him.

Lexa’s the only one who walks beside her, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as though she’s trying to keep Clarke from thinking about the horrible decision she’s just been forced to make. She’s grateful for the distraction, though as they grow nearer to Camp Polis, her gratitude slips away, diminished by the knowledge that soon, she and Lexa will have to part ways. She may only have known her a short while, but they’re both young women who’ve had leadership foisted on them without much of a choice — it could hardly hurt to have a friend like that, Clarke thinks.

Part of her wants to try and convince Lexa to bring her people to Mount Weather, but she knows that trying is futile. They have a good system at Camp Polis, and besides, the disappearance of all their scouting parties is reason enough to want to stay away from the mountain. Clarke is certain that there’s a good reason that Lexa’s scouting parties never returned to camp, but there’s no reasoning with the brunette. As far as she’s concerned, the mountain is dangerous. Clarke’s already resolved to prove her wrong.

The sun is starting to dip below the trees when they finally reach the gates of Camp Polis. Those of Clarke’s group who haven’t yet seen it seem impressed by its sturdiness; Octavia strokes one of the wooden posts, eyes wide.

“It’s safe here,” she says, sounding awed. “Isn’t it?”

“We try to keep it that way,” Lexa tells her.

Lincoln raps on the gate, some sort of signal to let the guards know who it is that’s returned, and then he turns to say his goodbyes to Octavia. The rest of Clarke’s group are already starting to move on, urged by Bellamy’s reminder that the sun is setting and Mount Weather is still far away, but Clarke lingers. Her eyes meet Lexa’s, and the brunette gives a soft smile.

“Thank you,” Clarke says, though the words don’t seem enough for all that Lexa’s done for her. The medicine for Raven, the guard back through the city, the help with Murphy. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t been willing to help us.”

“It was nothing,” Lexa says. The gate is creaking open now, but Lexa’s eyes are still fixed firmly on Clarke’s. “I don’t suppose I could try one more time to convince you to stay here? It’s safe. You would be welcome. More than welcome.”

Clarke hesitates. It would be easier to stay in Camp Polis, to try and insert herself into the little society that Lexa and her people are creating — but she knows that she would always wonder what was waiting at Mount Weather. What if the people there are working on a cure? The fact that the safe zone lies in an old research facility makes her believe that it could be possible, and if she stays here, she’ll never know.

The curiosity would eat her alive.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she tells Lexa, and it might be her imagination, but she thinks the brunette’s eyes dim a little at the response. Conscious of the fact that Lincoln has stepped into Camp Polis, that even Octavia has left and her group is moving on, Clarke reaches out to grasp Lexa’s hands and squeezes them. “I’ll get a message to you about your people when we reach the mountain. I’ll make sure that you know what’s going on.”

“Be safe,” Lexa tells her. Then she too steps inside the gates of the camp, and Clarke trudges after her friends, wondering why there’s a pit of emptiness in her stomach all of a sudden.

She has to jog a little to catch up with the rest of the group, and when she does, she’s relieved to find that everyone’s mood seems to have picked up a little. With Lincoln and Lexa gone, they’ve regained some of their old dynamic. They don’t skirt away from her like she’s a monster anymore. Finn falls into step with her, nudging his hip against hers and offering her a smile.

“You made a hard choice today,” he says. “I just wanted you to know that nobody judges you for it.”

Earlier, she might have questioned him, but it seems as though things are back to normal now — or at least as normal as anything gets, in this twisted new world of theirs. Spirits considerably lifted, Clarke tucks her arm through Finn’s and pulls him onwards through the woods.

They’re in a particularly dense thicket of trees when they hear the noises.

They’ve been quiet as they made their way through the woods, conscious as always of the need for stealth in the darkness, so the rustling sticks out immediately. They come to a halt as a collective group, and like a well-oiled machine, they’ve all reached for their weapons and taken up defensive stances by the time the noises start to draw nearer. Clarke would almost find it funny, if it wasn’t for the life-threatening situation that they’ve found themselves in once again.

The first lurker comes alone, shambling towards Monroe with its jaws snapping. One of its eyeballs dangles from the socket, bouncing sickeningly off of its hollowed cheek with every step that it takes. Monroe takes it out easily, jabbing her knife into its head and wiping the gore off on her shirt without missing a beat. Clarke hopes that this will be the only one, but of course, they’re not that lucky. Immediately after Monroe’s target crumples to the ground, two more of the undead come stumbling out of the trees, and the noises that follow them suggest that they won’t be the last. Somehow, the horde that they managed to avoid after Murphy’s outburst has appeared now, when they’ve been so quiet and so careful.

Clarke unhooks her arm from Finn’s and in one smooth, fluid movement, she takes out a lurker that’s lurching towards Octavia. Gripping her knife, ready for more attackers, she assesses the situation. The lurkers are coming at them from all sides, it appears, but they haven’t overwhelmed them just yet. It’s almost as though they’re staggering their attacks, but Clarke knows that they don’t retain nearly enough intelligence to know how effective the tactic would be. It’s just pure dumb luck that the tide hasn’t crashed over them yet, but that luck isn’t going to hold if they just stand here, no matter how good they are at dispatching the dead.

“We need to keep moving,” she calls, ducking to avoid a blow from Finn’s elbow as he thrusts a knife into one of the shambling corpses. “If we stay here, they’re just going to box us in. Keep heading straight, weapons at the ready. There’s probably going to be more of them ahead.”

She’s right. The wave of lurkers grows larger as they advance through the trees, and there’s nothing but the sounds of grunting and knives being pressed through bone as they continue. Clarke dispatches lurker after lurker, her clothes growing more blood-splattered as they move. Her arm aches from thrusting her knife into the skulls of the dead.

She doesn’t start to panic until she realises that she can’t see the trees anymore.

“Finn?” she says, trying to catch a glimpse of him amidst the bodies that surround her. “Bellamy? Octavia?”

Either they can’t hear her over the mass of the dead, or they’re too preoccupied to answer. Either way, Clarke is suddenly terrified. Her knife slashes grow more reckless as she tries to find a way out of the crowd. She has more than one close call with a pair of lurker jaws, but manages to duck away in time, shouting for her friends all the while. The dead converge on her, a writhing mass of bodies whose only desire is to bite and eat and _kill_ , and Clarke thinks that she might just be in over her head this time.

As she tries to fight her way out, a whirl of thoughts settle on her, one right after the other. This is punishment for what she did to Murphy. For being reckless enough to think that she could actually lead her whole group through the infested city and woods to safety. For thinking that there could be a light at the end of the never-ending tunnel that is the world now.

Her arm is aching. Her knife is blunt. She can only keep this up for so long.

But then in the chaos, she hears a voice calling her name. It’s Finn, sounding frantic, and joining his voice are a chorus of others. She yells back, slashing her knife through the air with renewed vigour, until at last the bodies start to fall away and she catches a glimpse of the trees. The last lurker falls to the ground with a sickening thumping sound. Clarke looks up, breathing heavily, the knife still gripped tightly between her fingers.

Her friends are only a few feet away, though just a few moments ago, they may as well have been oceans apart. They’ve been separated into smaller groups by the tide of lurkers; Octavia and Bellamy, Jasper, Miller and Monty, the rest. They all look exactly how Clarke feels. Shell-shocked. Speechless. Terrified.

“They came out of nowhere,” Harper says. Blood coats the left side of her face, matting hair that’s already greasy from months without a working shower. “How did so many of them just come out of nowhere?”

Clarke doesn’t know. They’ve been overwhelmed by herds before — the memory of Wells’s death is still too fresh in her mind — but never like this. One moment, they had been in control. The next, they were helpless. Suddenly, she’s gripped with a desperate need to be out of the forest, away from the trees. They feel suffocating.

“Is everyone okay?” Clarke asks, feeling as though she needs to check up on the others even amidst her own fear and panic. “Is anyone hurt?”

There’s a flurry of activity as everyone looks around, checking themselves and their companions for cuts, scrapes, anything that could indicate that they’re no longer safe to travel with. Clarke is shaking as she checks herself over. It’s hard to tell if she’s been cut or bitten; there’s so much blood coating her skin that she can’t tell if it’s come from her, the lurkers, or her friends. At last, she thinks that she’s clear. She looks around at her friends, apprehensive, waiting for one of them to tell her that they’ve been bitten — but amazingly, everyone seems like they’re okay. Scared, but okay.

It seems too good to be true. They were _swallowed_ by the dead. How is it possible that all of them have escaped unscathed?

“Sure?” Clarke says, swallowing hard. The others nod in response. Finn reaches out to grip her wrist, squeezing it comfortingly. “Alright then. Let’s keep moving. Stick together, don’t get separated, and keep listening for anything that sounds like it might be dangerous.”

They still seem hesitant, so Clarke’s the one to push forward, heading for what she hopes is the way out. She hears them following just a moment later, though there’s no conversation, just the sound of feet crunching over fallen leaves and twigs. Clarke still holds her blunt, bloodied knife in her hand, outstretched in front of her, ready to strike at whatever might stumble out of the trees ahead of her. Finn stays close, lingering at her side like he’s afraid to let her out of his sight.

Wick and Raven fall into step with them after a little while, though Raven needs Wick’s support to keep up with her injured leg. Clarke is in no mood to talk, but forces a smile nonetheless, because if there’s anything she’s learned since the whole world went to shit, it’s that keeping a brave face after situations like this is necessary. If she dwells on it, she’s doomed.

“What’s up?”

“We think we’re pretty close,” Raven says, and suddenly the fake smile on Clarke’s face doesn’t feel so fake anymore. Beside her, Finn tenses.

“Are you sure?” she says, unconsciously picking up pace at the thought that they might be almost there. Now more than ever, Mount Weather means safety, shelter from the unknown number of the undead shambling about the forest.

“I can’t be certain without maps or a GPS,” Raven says, wincing a little as Wick helps her over a tree root, “but from what I remember, the country club is on the opposite side of the forest from Camp Polis. When I was a kid we used to sneak out and TP the gate. We should be almost there by now, and Mount Weather’s not far from there.”

“Raven needs a rest,” Wick adds. “Back there, with the lurkers, I wasn’t able to support her leg. And we’re losing daylight, too. What do you think about taking shelter in the country club tonight and then heading out first thing tomorrow?”

If Clarke’s being honest, she doesn’t want to rest now. They’re on the final stretch. They’re so close, it feels like if they stop now, they might not make it. But Wick is right; the sun has almost vanished by now, and it’s more dangerous to travel at night than during the day. If they keep on moving, they could get caught unawares again, and Clarke knows that it’s a lot harder to defend yourself when you can’t see where your attackers are coming from. After a brief moment of consideration, she nods.

“We’ll spend the night at the country club,” she says. “Who knows, maybe there’s some food there that no one else has found yet. But we’re going to be out of there first thing. Wick, let the others know?”

He leaves Raven leaning on Clarke’s arm for support and makes his rounds through the group, telling them the plan in hushed tones. Raven directs Clarke through the trees, until at last, they grow less dense, and the edge of the forest becomes clear. In the dim twilit night, it’s hard to see much of anything, but Raven points at a set of low white buildings and squeezes Clarke’s arm.

“That’s the club,” she says excitedly. “And look, Clarke, look what’s behind it!”

She sees. Looming over the country club is Mount Weather, and set into the side of the mountain itself is a series of buildings. The safe zone. Clarke’s heart leaps. It’s so _close_. In one of those squat buildings nestled into the mountainside, a whole new life could be waiting for them.

“Let’s keep going,” she says.

They push forward towards the country club, moving with renewed energy now that their destination is in sight. Even Raven is moving quickly, the pain in her leg forgotten now that she knows how close they are.

The country club is surrounded by a high fence, one that used to be charged with electricity, but sits dead and static now. Getting over the fence is easy. Once they’re inside, they split into groups to do a perimeter search, but they find nothing but dead bodies. The decision to use the club’s main restaurant as their shelter for the evening is unanimous; it’s the biggest room, the warmest, and most importantly, the one with the least amount of corpses strewn across it. Bellamy and Miller take charge of removing the dead. Monty and Jasper start laying out the sleeping bags. Suddenly exhausted, Clarke leans against a wall and slumps to the ground, watching as her friends set up their shelter. Finn lowers himself to sit beside her, wincing a little as he settles on the ground.

“Clarke,” he says, his voice quiet. “Listen.”

His tone is serious. It makes her heart sink. By now, she’s learned what a tone like Finn’s means. Something’s wrong, and she doesn’t know if she has it in her to deal with whatever it is. But leaders are supposed to be strong, and like it or not, Clarke’s the leader here. So she swallows back her feeling of foreboding, tilts her chin up and looks Finn in the eye with something like defiance and resignation all at once, daring him to say something that could make her day worse. She wishes she hadn’t bothered to meet his eyes. His are sad, resigned. Suddenly, she knows what he’s going to say.

“You got bitten,” she says dully. He reaches out and fumbles for her hand. He doesn’t have to say yes. Clarke feels the tears before they come and reaches up to wipe them, not wanting the rest of the group to see her crying. “Fuck. Are you sure?”

“It was back in the woods,” he says, squeezing her fingers. It’s supposed to be comforting, but it just makes her feel worse. Finn’s hand on hers is real, and it’s warm, and it’s _alive_ — but not for much longer, if what he’s saying is true. “When you went down. I panicked. I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention. It was on me before I figured out what was happening.”

He rolls up the cuff of his sleeve, just slightly, revealing a raw, angry red wound on his wrist. The bite marks are clear. Purple lines are already creeping up his forearm, a sign that he’s already starting to change. Clarke has to swallow back a sob at the sight.

“Roll it down,” she says. “Before the others see.”

“Clarke, they have to know.”

He’s trying to be gentle, to be brave for her, and part of Clarke hates him for that. If he got bitten when she was in trouble, then it’s her fault. If she hadn’t gotten dragged down by the mass of lurkers, then he wouldn’t have been distracted, and he would have been fine. He should hate her. Her eyes drift back to the purple lines climbing Finn’s arm, halting just a little before the elbow. As she looks at them, it’s like a light bulb clicks on in her head.

“You’re not going to die today,” she says, scrambling to her feet. Finn looks at her, confused, but she’s already rushing to explain. “Look — the lines — what if we could stop it? Cut off the arm, stop the infection. You could live, Finn! If that’s a sign of infection then maybe there’s still time, maybe we could save you!” She’s babbling, she knows, and she probably looks wild, but she doesn’t care. This feels like a breakthrough. Finn, however, doesn’t look convinced.

“The bite kills, Clarke,” he says. “We’ve seen it happen before. I don’t think—”

“We’ve never _tried_! We’ve never had the chance to try!”

By now, the others are starting to gather, and from the panicked murmurs running through the group, Clarke can tell that they know Finn’s been bitten. Suddenly, she’s immensely grateful that they left Murphy behind. If he was here right now, Finn would have a bullet in his head already. She’s not about to let that happen, not without a fight. They’ve lost too many people already.

“Alright,” she says, whirling on the group. “Listen to me. Finn’s been bitten, but I think we can save him. We have to act quickly, but I think we can do it.” She grabs for Finn’s arm, rolling the sleeve up further to expose the skin. “See these purple lines? I’m willing to bet that that’s the infection making its way towards his heart. If we cut the infected part of the limb off, we might be able to stop him from turning. Then we can get him proper medical care at Mount Weather.”

“Are you sure about this?” Bellamy says. His forehead is creased with concern. “If it doesn’t work and he turns…”

“If it doesn’t work, then we’ll do what we have to do,” Clarke says. “But I’m not about to let Finn die if he doesn’t have to.” She turns to Finn, pleading. “Let me do this. Let me _try_.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he nods, though he still doesn’t look convinced. Clarke doesn’t care. She’s going to prove him wrong, prove all of them wrong. But first comes the hard part.

She has Jasper bring her their measly medical kit, and Monty a bottle of moonshine to sterilise her knife with. Ideally, she would have a bone-saw, proper medical equipment, anaesthetic. But there’s no time to dwell on what she’d like to have to perform this procedure. With every second that passes, the purple lines travel further up Finn’s arm, and their chances of saving him decrease.

Miller and Bellamy hold him down. Raven, tears streaming down her face, finds a rag for him to bite down on. Jasper ties off the arm as tight as he can to minimise blood loss, and then Clarke approaches, knife in hand. Finn’s eyes meet hers, terrified, but trusting. She takes a deep breath, and then she starts to saw.

It’s harder than she thought it would be. Months of driving blades through dead bodies haven’t prepared her for what it’s like to slice through a live one. Finn’s shrieks are barely muffled by the rag, and Miller and Bellamy have to put all of their weight on him to stop him from thrashing around so that Clarke can make the cut a clean one. Clarke can feel tears spilling down her cheeks as she cuts, but she ignores them. She has to keep going. This is what will save Finn, she’s sure of it.

Mercifully, he passes out before Clarke gets to the bone, because that’s where the real horror begins.

Time stops as Clarke saws and saws, her arm growing numb from the exertion. The sound of metal screeching against bone is almost more welcome than the sound of her friends sobbing behind her. At long last, though, she passes through to the other side. Finn’s lower arm separates from the rest of his body, though Clarke thinks she sees the fingers twitch for just a moment after. She steps back, dropping the knife, and then turns and falls to her knees. She heaves, once, twice, and then vomit sprays on the ground below.

“Jesus,” Bellamy murmurs from above her.

She hears footsteps, and then Octavia and Harper are by her side, rubbing soothing circles on her back. They’re talking to her, but their words fade out, replaced by the sound of her knife sawing through Finn’s bone. She closes her eyes and sees his blood spraying. When she opens them, the image doesn’t fade.

She heaves again, and prays that Finn is going to be okay.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lincoln and Lexa return to camp to discover a tragedy, and Lexa finally has to decide what to do about Nia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning from a year-long hiatus to update a fic on a show I haven't watched in a veeeery long time might not be one of my better ideas... BUT, I want to get back into watching The 100 and I was reading through my fanfic folder recently and got the urge to finish this one at last. So, I'm back (with a new username! Yay!) and I have every intention of finishing this one out ^^

Once they bid goodbye to Clarke’s group, Lexa feels a knot in her chest untighten. They’re survivors, Clarke and her friends, just like the people that Lexa’s tried to gather around her, but there’s something disordered about them. She worries about them making their way to the mountain. She’s hoping that Clarke and her group will prove her wrong, get a message to Camp Polis and show her that the mountain is safe after all, but it’s a dull kind of hope, already edged with disappointment. She knows that’s not what’s going to happen.

Clarke and her team are as good as dead.

Lincoln leans against the fence while Lexa makes one last offer for Clarke and her group to stay. Like Lexa, he doesn’t seem surprised when she declines. She heads in the direction that the rest of her group went, leaving Lexa staring after her, feeling a strange hollowness inside.

“She seemed like a fighter,” Lincoln says conversationally. “Like someone we could use, don’t you think?”

“All of them seemed like fighters,” Lexa says. “But there’s nothing either of us could have said to convince them to stay, so why dwell on it?”

The gate swings inwards and Lexa reaches up to thread a hand through her messy braids. Exhaustion rolls over her in sudden, overwhelming waves, the toll of the night spent in the daycare finally making itself known. She longs to go inside the camp, head for her cabin, and sleep for at least a week.

As usual, Lexa doesn’t get what she hopes for.

It’s Anya who opens the gate, accompanied by a thunder-faced Nyko. Anya doesn’t have any of her usual jokes to greet Lexa. Instead, she stares at her, solemn and reproachful.

“Nia’s group hit us last night,” she says. “Niylah’s dead. Everything is gone.”

Lincoln swears, barrels through the gates and towards the pantry, leaving Lexa to try and process Anya’s words. They’re simple ones, and they should be easy to understand, but Lexa can’t seem to make them make sense inside her head. Nia’s group are scavengers and raiders. They’re not killers. They’ve never attacked one of Lexa’s group so directly.

“What happened?” Lexa says. She starts to follow Lincoln, Anya and Nyko following behind with that same unsettling solemnity that Lexa’s not used to.

“Niylah was in charge of guarding the pantry last night,” Nyko says. “She was supposed to be partnered with Indra, but she insisted that she do it herself. Indra had already pulled three watch shifts that afternoon. She said that she’d be no use to anyone if she didn’t get some sleep.”

“We figure they broke in at around two in the morning,” Anya says. “That’s when me and Nyko were meant to relieve Niylah and Indra. We didn’t know that Niylah was by herself. We would have made sure she had someone, if we did.”

They’ve reached the pantry by now, and Lexa can hear Lincoln swearing and throwing things inside. She swallows hard, half-expecting to see a body when she enters the room, but there’s nothing. Just rows upon rows of empty shelves, knocked over jars, cans missing their contents. And Lincoln, standing in the centre of the room with his fists tightly balled up, shoulders clenched, rage written all over his face.

“I’m going to kill her for this,” he seethes.

“They got in through the back,” Anya says, ignoring Lincoln’s muttering. “We found the door hanging off the hinges. Niylah was…” She hesitates, swallowing. “Niylah was lying in front of it. They slashed her throat. I think it was probably quick.”

Quick or not, she’s gone. Echo, Niylah. Lexa’s people are falling like dominos and she’s powerless to stop it.

“How do we know that it was Nia?” she asks, trying to keep some semblance of order. She has to be the one to do it. The normally steady Lincoln is vibrating with anger at this point, and there’s no one else to ask the questions that need to be asked. It was only yesterday that Lexa mistook Clarke and Finn for members of Nia’s group, and the error weighs on her mind now. Nia’s group have been a thorn in her side from the moment that they crossed paths, but they’ve never killed one of Lexa’s people before. Before she jumps to conclusions and decides what kind of retribution to take, Lexa has to be sure that Nia is responsible.

“We caught one of them trying to make their getaway,” Nyko says. “The others made it over the fence, but we got one of them, at least. He’s in the administration building. We figured that you’d want to deal with him yourself.”

Lexa closes her eyes and nods. Another interrogation. She’s starting to feel less like she’s trying to protect a bunch of survivors, and more like a military commander, fending off attacks left, right and centre. It occurs to her, not for the first time, that she doesn’t enjoy leading. There are too many decisions to make, too many responsibilities that leave her aching and unsure of herself. She thinks of the Lexa from Before, and wonders if she would recognise herself now. That girl’s biggest concern was whether the coffee shop had her favourite blend in stock. The Now-Lexa, the Lexa that Anya playfully calls ‘Commander’ when she thinks she can get away with it, is an entirely different creature. One who has to dole out justice yet again.

“Let’s go and talk to him, then,” she says wearily.

This time, Nyko and Anya lead the way. There’s purpose in their stride, an eagerness to get something done about the intruders in their camp. Lexa hangs back, and Lincoln eventually catches up to her, his rage dissipated. He’s turned silent. Brooding. She circles her fingers around his wrist briefly, squeezes, a small gesture to say that things will be okay. She’s not prepared for what he says in response to her attempt at comfort.

“It’s my fault. I said that nothing would happen if we were away for one night. If we were here—”

“If we were here, nothing would be different,” Lexa interrupts, some of her fierceness returning. “You said it yourself, Lincoln, we never managed to catch them breaking in before. Why would last night have been any different? Niylah still would have been guarding the pantry alone. They still would have made it over the fence. We’d be in exactly the same position as we are now, except you’d be blaming yourself for not somehow sensing that something was wrong. Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. I won’t allow it.”

She knows what he’s thinking. That while Niylah was dying, they were helping people that they had never met before. That one of their own lay cut and bleeding on the pantry floor, while Lincoln laughed and flirted with pretty Octavia. It’s survivor’s guilt, and Lexa knows firsthand that holding onto it is dangerous. She reaches out for Lincoln again, grasping his hand this time, and squeezes as hard as she can.

“You’re right,” he says, though there’s still hesitation and uncertainty there. It will take some time before he comes to terms with what happened, but Lexa thinks he’ll realise eventually that there was no way he could have prevented it.

Their prisoner is being held in the director’s office, the same room where Lexa interrogated Clarke just yesterday. It feels like months ago. An age has passed in just one night, and Lexa feels older than any twenty two year old has a right to feel.

“Do you want to do this alone?” Anya asks, hand resting on the doorknob, but Lexa shakes her head before she’s even finished asking the question.

“I want all of you with me. We’re presenting a united front. Let him see exactly who he’s pissed off.”

Anya opens the door and they file into the room; first Anya, then Nyko, Lincoln, and finally, Lexa, with her chin held high and her shoulders set. She’s enraged, furious, heartbroken over what happened to Niylah, but she won’t let their captive see it. Better to present herself as unshakeable. A rock.

The prisoner looks to be around Lexa’s age, and she finds herself thinking idly that so many of the survivors they encounter seem to be young. Where are the elderly fighters, beating off biters with walking sticks and Zimmer frames? Even the middle-aged seem to be in short supply these days. In Lexa’s camp, they’re outnumbered by teenagers and twenty-somethings.

He’s wiry, but even tied to the chair Lexa can see the thick cords of his muscles working beneath his skin. He’s tanned, with long, greasy dark hair and eyes that radiate ruthlessness. Looking at him makes Lexa uneasy. She walks towards him, plants her feet in what she hopes is a threatening stance, and crosses her arms. All the while, he regards her coolly.

“Your name,” Lexa says. He continues to stare, unmoved.

Nyko steps forward, more visually threatening than Lexa with his bulk and untamed beard. He bears down on the boy, eyebrows furrowed together with rage, and speaks in a tone that’s deadlier than any Lexa has ever heard him use.

“She asked you what your name is.”

The boy shifts his gaze to Nyko and looks like he’s weighing up his options. Lexa can understand that, but she hopes that he’s smart enough to understand that they’ll get answers out of him, one way or another. She doesn’t hurt humans unless she has to, but this human has committed a major mistake. He killed one of Lexa’s own. Blood must have blood.

“Roan,” he says at last, and despite everything that’s happened, Lexa finally feels like they’ve gotten a break.

Roan is Nia’s son. She’s never met him, but on the many times that Lexa met with Nia to try and persuade her to unite their groups, Nia used him as an excuse to say no. She had to look after her son. Lexa’s people were simply too much of a liability, and creating such a large group would create far too many mouths to feed. She had to think of her son, didn’t she?

For some reason Lexa’s always imagined Roan to be a child, a teenager at the most, but the young man staring before her is obviously in his early twenties. Nia must be older than she looks. As Nyko steps back from Roan, Lexa allows a smile to grace her lips, and tilts her chin further at the prisoner.

“It’s your lucky day,” she tells him. “See, I came home from a pretty trying night to find that my camp was raided and one of my best people was killed. Not a great homecoming, you have to admit. So I came in here ready to do what needed to be done — to kill the bastard that killed Niylah, and maybe get some information on Nia and her band of criminals before that. If you were someone else, I’d be thinking up ways to kill you right now.” Her smile widens. “But you’re _Nia’s son_. And that means you’re more valuable to us alive than dead. So you get a pass, for now. But you’re going to tell us every single detail of what happened last night, and how we can get our supplies back from your mother. Understand?”

Roan stares at her, and then he rears back his head and spits. A glob of phlegm lands on the toe of Lexa’s boot.

The act of disrespect causes momentary chaos — both Lincoln and Nyko lurch forward, fists raised, and Anya lets loose with a stream of insults and profanities that would make Lexa’s mother blush, if she were still alive. It takes several minutes before Lexa manages to calm down her companions. She doesn’t blame them for reacting. Tensions are high, and she suspects that even if Roan were willingly cooperating already, something similiar would have happened.

“Do that again and I’ll cut your tongue out of your mouth myself,” Nyko growls, and Roan sits back in his chair, momentarily subdued.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says. “My mother is ruthless. If she has to choose between holding onto the food we took from you or getting me back, she’ll choose the food every time. That can help her survive better than I can.”

There’s a sincerity in his words, but Lexa doubts them all the same. There are few mothers who would willingly sacrifice their only child for the sake of some canned goods and packets of rice. Nia is heartless, but Lexa believes she has to hold at least some sort of affection for her son.

“What happened at the pantry last night?” she asks, deciding to avoid the topic of Nia for now. “How many of you were there?”

He rolls his eyes. “What does that matter?”

“It matters,” she says softly. “How many?”

“Six,” he says after a moment, grudging. “Me. Three other guys. Two girls.”

“How did you get in?”

“The same way we always get in. Your fence isn’t worth shit. Anybody can get in if they try hard enough.”

True, to an extent. The fence is solid, and they take care to reinforce it at every opportunity, but a good fence is nothing without guards to keep an eye on it. There’s not enough of them to watch every section of the camp. For the first time, Lexa finds herself wishing that Camp Polis was smaller, easier to protect.

“Why did you kill Niylah? You’ve never killed any of us before.”

“There’s never been anyone stopping us from getting to the food,” Roan says. “She got in the way. We had to get rid of her.”

The detachment in his voice makes bile rise in the back of Lexa’s throat. He’s talking about ending a human life, but his tone carries no remorse or regret. Niylah wasn’t a person to Roan and his people. She was just an obstacle, standing in the way of what they wanted. Food.

“Why kill her, though?” Anya puts in, catching Lexa off-guard. “You could have subdued her. Knocked her out, tied her up. You said it yourself, there were six of you. A couple of you couldn’t have held her back while the rest of you got the food? You had to cut her throat?”

Roan turns his gaze to her, looking bored now. “It was the quickest way. We were in a hurry. And if we’d tied her up, she might have screamed.” The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “I made sure she never got the chance.”

This time, Lexa doesn’t stop Lincoln when he rears forward with clenched fists. He punches Roan once, twice, and then steps back, chest heaving. Restraint. It’s something that Lincoln’s known for. Roan coughs, spits out a mouthful of blood, and glares up at Lincoln with renewed hatred.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I should have done more,” Lincoln says, and retreats to the other side of the room. He stares at Roan, arms folded.

It’s time for Lexa to take back control of this interrogation.

“Killing Niylah was a really big mistake,” she says. “Once they know what you did, every single person in this camp will be out for your blood. I don’t know what your mother told you about us, but that’s not a position that I’d want to be in. If you cooperate us, I’ll make sure that your life is spared.” Murmurs of dissent from Anya, Nyko and Lincoln, but Lexa holds up a hand, stalling them. “I’m sick of Nia stealing from us and reaping the benefits of our hard work. She likes to talk about how she’s such a great leader to her people? Bullshit. She’s nothing but a liar and a cheat and a thief. So I’m going to make her an offer.”

“My mother doesn’t take kindly to offers,” Roan says, but Lexa ignores him.

“We’ll trade your life in return for a truce,” she says. “She’ll return the supplies that she’s stolen. She will swear never to send her raiding parties to Camp Polis again. And if she does those things, then we won’t kill you. We’ll keep you prisoner, of course,” she adds, noting with relish the brief flicker of alarm that crosses Roan’s face at the thought. “Someone has to pay the price for Niylah’s death, after all. But we won’t harm you. We’ll see that you’re safe and fed, and even allow your mother to visit you, if she wants.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Roan says. “I told you. My mother won’t trade survival for my life.”

Lexa smiles at him. “We’ll see,” she says. She exits the room without another word and strides out into the darkening night.

It takes a moment for the others to follow, and when they do, they’re stony-faced. She can’t blame them. They wanted justice for Niylah’s death, and instead, they’ve gotten nothing. Still, she can see that they trust her to make the right call, and she’s grateful for that. She would love nothing more than to get her hands on Roan herself, beat him to a bloody pulp for what he did to Niylah. But there’s a bigger picture to think of, and Roan is an invaluable bargaining chip, no matter what he thinks about his relationship with his mother.

“Are you sure about this?” Anya asks. Lexa nods.

“Gather some volunteers,” she says. “We’re sending an envoy to the country club to meet with Nia. We’ll present her with our terms and decide where to go from there.”

“And if he’s telling the truth?” Nyko asks. There’s more suspicion in his tone than Anya’s, the barest suggestion that he might be questioning Lexa’s judgment. She has to stamp that out before it gets out of hand.

“Then we kill him.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finn's fate is revealed and Clarke's group encounter a new enemy.

In the aftermath of the amputation, Clarke loses time. She remembers the sawing, the sound of cracking bone and the rich, coppery smell of fresh blood. She remembers vomiting when it was finished, feeling weak and shuddery at her own brashness in trying to outsmart the bite. But after that, it’s a blur. When she finally comes back to herself, she’s sitting cross-legged on the ground. Finn is stretched out a few feet away from her. For a heart-stopping moment, she thinks that he’s dead, but then she sees the slow rise and fall of his chest. Not dead, then. Mercifully, sleeping. She notices that someone has taken the time to bind the wound. A white bandage, only barely bloodstained, covers the stump where his lower arm used to be.

“We cauterised it.”

Bellamy’s voice reaches Clarke’s ears, sounding just as hollowed out and sick as she feels. He’s standing by the bar, polishing one of his knives with a rag. He looks years older than he should, and Clarke’s heart aches a little when he looks over at Finn, concern flickering across his face. Bellamy’s got big brother instinct written all over him. It used to be reserved for Octavia, but she can tell from the way he looks at Finn that it’s extended to all of them now.

“That’s good,” she says, her voice barely a croak. She clears her throat and gets to her feet. It’s time to put her leadership face back on. This was her idea — she has to see it through to the end. “How long…” She trails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“You’ve been catatonic for about an hour, now,” Bellamy says. “Octavia and Harper tried to get you moving so you could finish the surgery off, but Raven made them back off. She said that you’d done the worst part, so it was only fair that someone else did the rest.” He gives a small half-shrug. “It wasn’t so bad. The smell was pretty terrible, but at least he was passed out for most of it. I don’t think he’ll remember much.”

“Has he woken up?”

“Not yet. Looks like the infection’s stopped spreading though. No more purple lines, no fever. Your crazy idea might actually have worked.”

Clarke feels relief wash over her like a tidal wave. She goes to Finn’s side, fumbles for his hand and squeezes it hard. Encouragement. He doesn’t squeeze back, but his brow furrows just a little. A sigh escapes his lips. There’s pain written across his face, but he’s still here, still breathing. By now, Clarke has learned to be grateful for small mercies.

“Where are the others?” she asks, noticing that the room is empty except for herself, Bellamy and Finn. Panic returns to grip at her chest. “Did something happen?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “They’re exploring the rest of the grounds. This place is a hell of a lot bigger than we thought. We didn’t even cover half of it in our first perimeter search.”

Clarke frowns. Foolish of them. They’re never normally so careless, but she supposes that the strain and upheaval of the last few days has taken its toll on them. By the time they arrived at the country club, they were all exhausted. And then there was everything that happened with Finn’s arm… she’s not happy that they slipped up on their guard duty, but she understands it.

“Have they been gone long?”

“About a half hour,” Bellamy says, thinking. “I wanted them to go as soon as I realised there was more to this place than we thought, but no one wanted to leave you. Or Finn.” He hesitates, uncertainty on his face, and then shrugs again. “Clarke… why did you do what you did?”

She tilts her chin up at him, defiant all of a sudden. “Should I have let him die?”

“Jesus, you know that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that we’ve never done anything like this before. Everyone knows what the rules are, Clarke. You get bitten, you get put down. It’s for everyone else’s safety.”

“You said yourself,” Clarke points out, “my crazy plan worked. Finn doesn’t have any outward signs of infection. If he was turning, it would have started by now. I don’t understand why you’re questioning me when I actually _saved_ someone with a bite.”

“Sure,” Bellamy says softly, “but how did you know that it would work?”

He’s looking at her in that way that he’s always had, a stare that feels like it’s boring right down to the depth of her soul. She thinks about lying to him, maybe pretending that Lexa and Lincoln told her about someone at Camp Polis who survived a bite, but she decides there’s not much point. Bellamy Blake has never been easily convinced by lies. Besides, she’s feeling far too unsteady to properly weave the tale.

“I didn’t,” she admits, avoiding his eyes, “but I knew that I couldn’t lose anyone else. Not now. Not when we’re so _close_.”

There’s a pause, and then Bellamy is right there, arms wrapped around her in a tight hug. It’s not what she was expecting. The uncertainty in his eyes, the hesitancy in his voice, the reproachful look on his face. She was expecting a lecture. To get comforted instead is disarming.

“You’re a genius, Clarke,” Bellamy murmurs into her hair before he releases her. “None of the rest of us had the balls to suggest it. Don’t get me wrong, it was awful.” He pauses to shudder, probably remembering the way that Finn thrashed against him when Clarke made the first cut. “But I think it was worth it. We didn’t lose him, so I call that a win.”

A low groaning noise interrupts Clarke before she can respond. Her first thought is lurkers — that damn perimeter check — but then she notices that the noise is coming from Finn. The flicker of panic returns. They were wrong. Finn’s not cured. He’s turning.

But then he opens his eyes, and they’re clouded over with pain and confusion, but they’re still that familiar dark brown. Still human. Clarke resists the urge to throw herself at him, remembering just before it’s too late that he’s still hurt.

“H-hey, Princess,” Finn says. His voice is weak, but it’s there. It’s still him. The lurkers can’t speak. “Did you do it, like you said?”

“I did it,” Clarke says, trying and failing to blink back tears. The relief surging through her is intense. She feels like she’s witnessing a miracle. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”

Finn closes his eyes, gives a weak smile. “Knew you could do it.”

“Bellamy, can you get me the medical bag?” Clarke asks. “We should still have some painkillers left. If anybody deserves them, it’s Finn.”

Bellamy fetches the little kit, roots around in it and comes up with an all too small plastic baggie of pills. Clarke shakes three into her hand, takes one of their precious few remaining water bottles, and gently eases Finn into a half-sitting position. He winces at the movement, but stays steady, opening his mouth for the pills and swallowing back when she tells him to. He avoids looking at his arm.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Bellamy says, noticing the avoidance at the same time as Clarke. “It’s kind of badass, actually. And you’ve still got your right one, so you’re probably still better with a knife than the rest of us.”

Whatever snarky response Finn might have tried to make is cut short by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Immediately, Clarke is on her guard. Bellamy, too; he automatically slips into a defensive stance, hand reaching for the knife that he was polishing just a few minutes ago. Their wariness is unnecessary. The footsteps belong to Octavia, wild-haired and wild-eyed. She stumbles into the restaurant, panting.

“We have a problem.”

“Lurkers?” Bellamy checks.

Octavia shakes her head, and Clarke’s stomach sinks. Octavia isn’t the type of girl to get ruffled over the small things. If she’s panicking, that means that there’s really something to worry about. She hasn’t even said anything about Finn, despite the fact that he’s sitting up by himself now, watching her just as intently as Bellamy and Clarke.

“This place isn’t abandoned,” Octavia tells them. “There’s another group, on the other side of the club. Looks like they’re holed up in an indoor tennis court, or something like that. There’s a lot of them.”

“Did they see you?” Clarke demands. Another shake of the head from Octavia.

“We saw them through the window and got the hell out of there before they noticed us. I’m pretty sure it wastoo dark for them to see us through the glass. It was me and Miller who found them. He’s trying to round up the others, get them back here before they’re caught by someone else. I don’t think this is a safe place for us to stay, guys.”

“They could be friendly,” Finn says, ever the optimist. Octavia’s eyes alight on him, noticing that he’s awake for the first time, and even in her panic she manages a smile.

“You’re awake.”

“Picture of health, me,” he quips in return. But the joke doesn’t make Octavia’s smile last any longer, and when she speaks again, there’s an unfamiliar note of distress in her voice that shakes Clarke to her core.

“I didn’t like the look of them. I think we should leave, now. Before they figure out that someone’s trespassing on their turf.”

More footsteps approach, and Harper enters the restaurant, followed by Monroe, Fox and Miller. They look just as shaken as Octavia.

“We’ve gotta go,” Miller says, looking at Clarke with a fierceness that she’s not used to. “There’s people on the other side of the club, in the indoor tennis courts—”

“We know,” Bellamy interrupts. “We can’t leave until everyone’s back, though. No one’s getting left behind.” He glances aside at Clarke. “Not when we’re so close.”

“Monty and Jasper were taking the opposite side of the club,” Harper offers. “So they probably won’t run into the other guys.”

“And Raven? Wick?”

“They weren’t too far from me and Octavia,” Miller says. “I couldn’t find them, though. I tried, but there was more than just them to warn…” He trails off, guilt edging his words.

“They’re fine,” Clarke says, because to think otherwise is an impossibility right now. “You did the right thing, Miller.”

She’s thinking about the way that Raven and Wick have been looking at each other over these last few days and weeks. It’s hard to get a moment of privacy in a group like theirs, especially now that their camp is gone. The country club seemed safe when they arrived. Maybe they’ve snuck off to finally act on their feelings, thinking that nothing bad could happen, because of the high walls and the lack of lurkers.

Maybe, Raven’s still smarting over what happened to Finn, and she and Wick have taken a detour for her to talk about it. Maybe the people in the tennis court have caught them already and they’re being held prisoner, just like Finn and Clarke in Camp Polis only yesterday. Only Clarke doesn’t think that these strangers will be as inclined to let them go as Lexa was. Miller and Octavia, two of the most unshakeable members of their group, look terrified.

They need to find them.

Clarke turns to Finn. “Do you think you can move?” she says, low and urgent. It’s not ideal — after what Finn’s just been put through, she’d like for him to get at least a few hours of good, solid rest before he has to move, let alone before he might have to fight an unknown enemy. But they can’t leave him here alone and vulnerable while they look for Raven and Wick, and they need all hands on deck right now.

Finn nods, determined. “You got it, Princess. Just give me a second.”

He gets to his feet, slow and shaky, but he manages to stand by himself. His breaths are heaving and there are tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t falter. He raises his both arms in a gesture of celebration, the shortened one looking uncannily wrong in the fading evening light.

“Son of a bitch,” Miller mutters across the room, admiring.

“You’re still hurt,” Clarke reminds Finn, “so I want you to stay back from any action if you can. If that arm starts to hurt any more than you think it should or you feel weird at all, you tell me, okay? You can be our eyes and ears out there.”

He nods again. Bellamy claps him on the shoulder, a gesture of support, and turns to the group at large.

“First we find Monty and Jasper,” he says. “They should be close by, from what Harper said. When we’ve got them, we head for the tennis courts and find Raven and Wick. The priority here is not to be seen or heard. If Miller and Octavia say that these people seem dangerous, then the last thing we want is for them to notice us, so everyone has to be on their guard. Got it?”

Murmurs of assent ripple through the room, and they start to organise themselves. They pack up the supplies that they’ve already laid out, wanting to make a quick getaway once all of their group are together again, and then they start to move out. Octavia and Miller take the lead, followed by Monroe and Harper. Clarke follows, with Finn sandwiched between her and wide-eyed Fox, and then Bellamy takes up the rear, knife already in hand.

Twilight was falling when they arrived at the country club. Now, the night is almost pitch black, and seeing is difficult. In the far distance, Clarke can see what must be the indoor tennis courts, lit up from the inside by what looks like candles. She swallows hard, wondering what kind of enemy waits inside those walls. Lurkers are frightening, but they’re only a real threat in big numbers. Human evil is another question entirely.

They move through the club as silently as possible, treading on one another’s feet every few steps in their efforts to stay close. Clarke takes care not to bump against Finn’s wounded arm, but when he stumbles, unsteady, she whispers to Fox in a low voice to take hold of his good one.

 _It’s not good_ , she thinks. _He needs more time._

But time is a luxury that they can’t afford.

They’re passing by another restaurant, smaller than the one they were holed up in earlier, when Miller tenses and throws out an arm to prevent the rest of them from coming any further.

“Movement,” he whispers. “Up ahead.”

Clarke squints and sees it. Two figures, moving slowly. It could be Monty and Jasper, but it could just as easily be one of the strangers that they’re so desperate to avoid. Bellamy murmurs something about being on guard, and everyone reaches for their weapons. They wait for the figures to get closer.

They’re just a few feet away when the tense slope of Miller’s shoulders drops, and he breaks away from the group, sprinting across the grass. Clarke wants to call out to him for being so reckless, but doing so would be suicide. She thinks that he’s recognised the newcomers for their enemies and is planning on attacking by himself, until he throws his arms around one of them in an embrace.

It’s Monty and Jasper, Clarke realises, and every muscle in her body seems to sag with relief.

They fill Monty and Jasper in on the threat and the missing Raven and Wick, careful to speak in whispers, and moving towards the tennis courts all the while. Miller refuses to let Monty out of his sight. Jasper is relegated to walking with Octavia.

The closer that they get to the tennis courts, the more Clarke keeps waiting for Raven and Wick to simply walk up to them, like Jasper and Monty did. It doesn’t happen. They’ve reached the enemy building now, searched all around it, and there’s no sign of their friends.

“What do we do?” Fox asks, fear making her sound much younger than she should.

Clarke wishes that she had an answer for that.

“Clarke,” Finn says suddenly, and she turns, waiting for him to say that his arm hurts, that he feels a fever coming on, any one of the nightmarish scenarios that would make this night even worse than it already is. But he doesn’t look like he’s in pain. He looks like he’s focused on something.

He tilts his head towards an object on the ground. He can’t bend to pick it up himself, so Clarke does it for him. Raven’s necklace, the clasp broken in two. Chills run down Clarke’s spine as she gets to her feet, holding out her palm with the necklace spooled inside for everyone to see. They recognise it instantly. She never takes it off.

“They’re inside the building,” Monroe says, horrified. “They’ve taken them inside, haven’t they?”

“What do we do?” Jasper asks.

“There’s a lot of people in that building,” Miller says. The unspoken suggestion that they should leave Raven and Wick behind gets him some dirty looks, but Clarke can’t blame him. Their number is depleted, Finn is injured, and they’re all exhausted from travelling all day. The chances of them rescuing Raven and Wick and making it out alive are slim to none.

But then her eyes flicker to Bellamy’s, and she remembers the words they both spoke earlier. _Not when we’re so close._

“We’re going inside,” she says, squaring her shoulders with a confidence that she doesn’t quite feel. “We’re just going to… walk inside, and ask for Raven and Wick back. We’ll apologise for trespassing. We’ll say that we’re moving on.”

“We’re not going to fight?” Octavia says, skeptical.

“We’re in no position to fight,” Bellamy says. “Not if there’s as many of them as you say there are. I think Clarke’s right. A straightforward meeting is our best shot.”

There’s finality in his words that suggests the matter is settled. Clarke tucks Raven’s necklace into the pocket of her jeans and strides towards the doors. No point in putting it off any longer, the way she sees it. She doesn’t expect them to open at her touch, but they do. They swing open to reveal a long hall, lit here and there by flickering candles, with several sets of double doors leading off the end of it.

“Now or never,” she murmurs to herself under her breath, as if the words themselves will steady her.

They walk down the hallway in file until they reach the set of doors that leads to the main base of the strangers. The windows have been blacked out by garbage bags, but the sound of voices from within is unmistakeable. Bellamy comes to stand by Clarke’s side and they push the doors open together, Clarke’s heart hammering in her chest so hard that she thinks it might burst out.

There’s more people than Clarke thought there would be. The hall is literally teeming with them, people packed in so close together that it’s hard to distinguish one from the other. Someone’s taken down the long net that used to stretch across the court, and on the back wall, there’s a row of shelves that clearly used to belong to one of the club’s restaurants. They’re piled high with food.

Finn tugs at Clarke’s sleeve. “Clarke, that’s the stuff that was in the pantry at Camp Polis,” he whispers.

Clarke remembers Lexa’s warnings about Nia, the raider who’s been terrorising them for months. So this must be her base, then. And she’s raided Camp Polis once again. Rage flickers in Clarke’s stomach and she strides forward, speaking loudly enough that her voice echoes throughout the crowded hall.

“Where is your leader?”

The crowd look at her blankly. She’s about to shout again when a woman stands at the back of the hall. She’s tall, with light brown hair scraped into a bun on the top of her head. A long, puckered scar runs from the tip of her jaw to her hairline, and there’s a cruel twist to her mouth that Clarke instantly dislikes. When she speaks, her voice is like glass.

“My name is Nia,” she says. “I lead these survivors. Who are you?”

“Clarke,” Clarke responds, striding forward through the crowds of people. She’s dimly aware of the others following behind, but all of her focus is on Nia. As she approaches, she pulls Raven’s necklace from her pocket and holds it out for the woman to see. “You have our people. We want them back.”

Nia raises her brows. “They trespassed,” she says, softly, dangerously. Clarke is reminded of a snake, waiting to strike. “This property is ours. We claimed it. What we choose to do with those who trespass is our business.”

“Not when they’re our people,” Bellamy says.

“We’re just passing through,” Clarke says, trying for rationality. “We needed a place to set up shelter for the night and we thought that the club was empty. Now that we know it’s not, we’re happy to be on our way. We haven’t touched your things, or stolen from you, or made any threats. All we want is Raven and Wick back and we’ll leave this place.”

Nia’s eyes show a spark of interest. “Passing through to where?”

“Mount Weather. The safe zone. We’ve been making our way there for the last day or two.”

The spark of interest fades, and Nia throws back her head and laughs. It’s a cruel laugh. It pierces through Clarke like a knife.

“So it’s a suicide mission, then,” the older woman says. “In that case, why should we bother returning your people to you? Better for them to die here than the mountain.”

Lexa’s not the only one who fears Mount Weather, then. It’s a bad sign, but Clarke knows that she has to push past it.

“If they’ll die either way,” she says, “then return them to us and let us die together.”

Nia looks at her, long and hard, appraising. After what seems like a lifetime, she slowly nods. She signals to a cluster of her people. “Get them.” She looks back at Clarke. “You’re fools, you know. The mountain isn’t safe.”

“What happens there?” Octavia asks, edging forward to stand beside Clarke and Bellamy. Nia looks her over with scorn.

“Things that you can’t imagine,” she says softly, but she doesn’t elaborate, because Raven and Wick are being led through the crowd now. They look worse for wear. Raven’s limping harder than before, and there are two long slashes on Wick’s cheek. They’re hurt, but they’re alive.

Despite her own injuries, when Raven sees Finn, her eyes light up. She quickens her pace, bypassing her escort to throw her arms around his neck.

“You’re alive,” she whispers. Finn murmurs something into her hair.

“Thank you,” Clarke addresses Nia. She senses that paying this woman the respect she thinks she deserves is important. There’s something about the way that Nia’s watching them that leaves Clarke feeling cold. She suspects that it would be nothing to Nia to order her people to kill them right now. There’s no doubt about who has the upper hand here.

“I’ll need payment,” Nia says. Clarke’s stomach drops.

“We don’t have much.”

“I’ll take what you do have. Food. Medicine. In exchange for my goodwill in letting you and your friends walk out of here.” She smiles that icy cold smile. “What use do you have for it when you’ll be at the safe zone in a matter of hours?”

There’s cruelty behind her words. It kills Clarke to deposit their supplies before the older woman, to relinquish the careful stash of sleeping bags and food and precious medicine that they’ve stored up over the last few weeks, but she sees no other choice, and from the frown that Bellamy shoots her, neither does he. All it would take is one word from Nia and they’d be dead. All they can do is hope that whatever they find at Mount Weather, it’s worth leaving all of this stuff behind.

Nia lets them keep their weapons, at least. __Once again, Clarke has to be grateful for small mercies. When they’ve handed over everything that interests her, Nia grants them lazy permission to leave.

She doesn’t have to ask twice.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lexa's people face off against Nia and come across a familiar face.

Word travels fast in Camp Polis.

By the next morning, everyone knows that Niylah is dead, murdered at the hands of Nia’s son. They know about Lexa and Lincoln’s journey into the city. The people are pissed, and they want answers. Lexa’s got Nyko and Lincoln trying to keep the peace in camp for now, but she knows that they won’t be able to keep everyone contained for long. The desire for revenge hangs heavy in the air.

And meanwhile, Lexa has to decide who to send to meet with Nia. She’s spent most of the night poring over lists of names, trying to decide if she should weight herself up with negotiators or fighters, just in case the worst case scenario should come to pass and they have to fight. She hasn’t slept.

She’s considering the pros and cons of bringing Indra or leaving her behind to guard the camp when the door to her cabin creaks open slowly and Anya steps inside, looking troubled. Lexa lays down the papers in front of her, tries to offer Anya a smile, and fails. She’s never seen her friend look as serious as she does now. Lexa braces herself, suspecting that she knows what’s coming.

“You know that this isn’t going to end without a fight,” Anya says quietly.

It’s exactly what Lexa’s been brooding over all night. During her interrogation with Roan, an offer of a truce seemed like the perfect plan. In the cold light of day, all Lexa can see is flaws, and no way to fix them. Things with Nia have gone too far, but they don’t have enough numbers to mount a proper attack. Whatever way that Lexa looks at it, it’s a suicide mission. So even though she wants to agree with Anya, she can’t. She has to play her cards right, or they could lose everything that they’ve built.

“There are too many of them,” Lexa says. “Fighting should be a last resort, not our main plan. Do you think we could hold up against all of Nia’s people? Maybe. But not without losing some of our own.”

Anya gives a small half-shrug of her shoulders, too careless for the topic at hand. She’s only thinking of revenge, Lexa knows it. She’s not looking at the bigger picture.

“Better to lose some fighting than to let Nia walk all over us like before.”

“You say that, but—”

“But nothing,” Anya shoots back. Lexa’s surprised by the fierceness in her tone. “We’ve lost people to the mountain, Lexa. We’ve lost people to biters. That’s the way the world works now. People die.” Her eyes flash. “What Roan did to Niylah… it wasn’t in self-defence, or a means to an end. It was cold-blooded and cruel. These are the kinds of people that we’re dealing with here, and you really think that _talking_ to them is going to work? You’re smarter than that.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Lexa asks wearily. “Charge in there guns blazing?”

“It’s what people want, Lexa!”

Regret flashes over Anya’s face the instant that the words come out. It’s a revelation, whether she intended for it to be one or not. If Anya knows what the people want and Lexa doesn’t, then that means they’re talking behind her back. They’ve lost their unshakeable faith in their unshakeable leader.

Lexa doesn’t feel as bad about it as she thought she would. It’s oddly relieving, like a burden has been lifted. She’s not the sole person responsible for decisions anymore. Still, it doesn’t let her off the hook entirely, so she meets Anya’s gaze with a steady one of her own, and when she replies, it’s to an equal.

“What have they been saying?”

“That you’re turning soft,” Anya says reluctantly. “Word got around pretty quick about what you did for that girl and her friend. People think that you shouldn’t have wasted our supplies on strangers like that. And…” She hesitates, continuing only when Lexa narrows her eyes. “And they think that you left us vulnerable by not coming back to camp last night. That if you and Lincoln had been here, things would be different.”

Lexa can’t say she blames anyone for thinking that. Despite her fierce insistence to Lincoln that they couldn’t have changed anything, she can’t help but wonder if things _would_ have been different if they hadn’t lingered with Clarke and her group. If they had been at camp, would Niylah be alive? Or would others be dead, Lexa and Lincoln included?

She can’t dwell on it, or it will eat her up from the inside out.

“Do they want me to step down?” she asks. Anya shakes her head.

“They know what you’ve done for us,” she says, and despite the grim situation, Lexa feels warmth pool in her stomach. Even in times like these, being appreciated is a basic human requirement. “People are mad, Lexa, but they know that you only want to do what’s best for everyone. The thing is, I don’t think just keeping our heads down is the best thing anymore. We have to stand up for ourselves. If Nia’s people were willing to kill one of us before, they’re not going to hesitate to do it again. Could you live with yourself if someone else died at their hands, when we had the chance to fight back?”

It’s the armour-piercing question that Lexa’s been dreading.

“No,” she admits. “Look, you’re right. I know you’re right. But the last time we met with Nia’s group, they had double our numbers, easily. How are we supposed to go up against them and win? It’s suicide.”

“Not necessarily,” Anya says. “They might have more people, but we have more fighters.”

Lexa thinks on it for a moment, and it may be because she’s at the end of her tether and just wants to make a decision, but she starts to think that what Anya says is true. A lot of Nia’s group are little more than dead weight. Pretty boys that Nia keeps around for her own satisfaction, middle-aged country club members soft around the middle from years of over-indulgence, people who have never seen a biter in action. Sure, there are fighters among them, people like Roan who wouldn’t hesitate to kill another human being, but the disadvantage to having a lot of people is that the odds say at least some of them have to be useless in a fight.

Besides that, they’ve had it easy, up in the country club, living off of the supplies there and then stealing whatever they wanted from Camp Polis. They’ve never had to fight for survival the way that Lexa and her people have. Nia herself is ruthless, and though there’s no doubt that she has some bloodthirsty companions, it’s a fair assumption that Lexa’s people are more experienced and prepared for hand-to-hand combat.

 _So we fight_ , she thinks, and once the thought crosses her mind she knows that there’s no going back. She picks up a list of names, scanning it for candidates. Lincoln. Nyko. Anya. Indra. Gustus. Her fiercest and most loyal allies. They won’t let her down, she knows that. But she knows too that no matter how much experience they have with fighting, no matter how desperately they want justice for Niylah, this has the potential to go terribly wrong. They’ll be facing Nia on her own turf. That means she’s got the upper hand.

“Do you really want to do this?” Lexa asks, quiet and serious. “If this is what you want — what everyone wants — then we’ll do it. But I don’t want anyone making this decision without seriously thinking about it first. And I won’t force anyone to fight. Only those who want to.”

“Ask them,” Anya says earnestly. “Ask anyone in this camp. It’s time we fought back, Lexa. You know it’s time.”

Lexa nods slowly. She suspects that this means it’s settled, but there are still things that need to be taken care of before they can act. She sends Anya out of the cabin, instructing her to gather everyone at the administration building. Then she puts away the lists she’s been poring over all night, all the while trying not to think how many people on those lists might be dead by the end of the day.

She gives Anya twenty minutes to gather a crowd and then heads for the administration building, keeping her head held high and her shoulders squared as she approaches so that no one will guess how conflicted she feels about what’s happening right now. With everyone gathered together, they look even less than they are. Murmurs run through the crowd, expectant, wondering. Lexa steps up before all them, and then, flanked by Anya and Lincoln, she launches into a hastily prepared speech.

She’s never been as eloquent as she wanted to be in these situations. Somehow, she manages to get everything out, including the truth about where she and Lincoln went, and what really happened to Niylah in the pantry. She apologises for not being there to protect them. And to her relief, no one calls her out for letting them down. She thinks there might even be a grudging respect in their eyes for her courage in admitting it. It’s like Anya said — they know what Lexa’s done for them, and they’re not ready to give up on her just yet.

“So that’s where we stand,” she finishes. “I’ve spoken to some of you and you’ve been very clear about wanting to make a stand against Nia. I thought we should make it official and take a vote.” Murmurs of agreement. “Alright then. All those in favour of mounting an attack on the country club, raise your hand.”

Every hand in the crowd shoots up. Behind her, Lexa hears Anya chuckle.

“Told you so,” Anya says quietly.

“Alright,” Lexa says, swallowing. “It’s decided, then. We’ll set out for the country club in the early afternoon.”

Things move quickly after that, much more quickly than Lexa would have liked. She spends the rest of the morning assigning leaders, forming groups, deciding who will stay behind to look after the children and mind the camp, and most importantly, advising people on how to act when they get to the country club. The last thing that Lexa wants is a bloodbath. Her instructions are to kill only if necessary — whatever kind of monster Nia is, most of her followers are probably just clinging to the person they believe will help them to survive. Lexa won’t give her own people permission to kill innocents, not unless they have to.

They assemble at the front gates that afternoon, and set out for the country club with grim determination.

Lexa is taking the lead, with a group of the most promising fighters trailing behind her. They’re the ones who have spent these last few months hunting, fighting with biters beyond the gates of Camp Polis. Lexa’s uncomfortably aware that fighting a human enemy is going to be very different, but she doesn’t voice her concerns. She’s been vocal enough about the danger that they’re walking into. To bring it up again, while they march towards possible destruction, would just lower morale.

Instead, she retreats into her own mind, and thinks about Clarke and her group. They should have made it to the mountain by now, but what does that mean? Are they safe, inside a quarantine zone, being fed and cared for and introduced to other survivors? Have they met up with Lexa’s lost people, all those who went to the mountain in search of salvation? Lexa imagines Clarke meeting Echo, telling her how worried Lexa and everyone at Camp Polis has been about her.

In the bright afternoon sunlight, it seems like a possibility. But as they trudge closer to Nia’s base, Lexa finds her mind turning to darker possibilities. Clarke’s group massacred by biters before they can reach the mountain. Murphy, vengeful and angry, descending on them before they reach safety and killing them for daring to leave him behind. And the worst possibility of all, the thought that they _have_ reached the mountain, but haven’t found safety inside.

She thinks her fears might be confirmed as they make their way through the forest and come across an endless pile of bodies, strewn across the forest floor like fallen leaves. Lexa gives an involuntary sharp intake of breath when she sees them, and for a moment, she’s sure that she sees Clarke among the dead, blue eyes staring wide and lifeless at the canopy of trees above. Then she blinks and the image vanishes, and she sees that the bodies belong to biters. All of them. Not a single human corpse among them.

Lincoln comes to a halt beside her and whistles lowly. “This is the direction Clarke’s group were heading, wasn’t it?” he says. Lexa nods. “Damn. We could have used them on our side for this fight.”

Lexa says nothing and trudges forward, suddenly needing to get this over with.

There’s an odd sort of excitement in the air by the time they finally reach the gates of the country club. Lexa thinks it has less to do with the violence that awaits them inside, and more to do with the fact that her people are excited to finally be doing something. So many of them have spent the past few months just sitting around, surviving, waiting for something to change. Lexa understands it, to an extent. She doesn’t relish the thought of killing another human being, but there is a thrill in finally standing up for themselves.

And as far as the Nia issue is concerned, this has been a long time coming.

They advance through the grounds of the club, keeping to a tight huddle just in case any of Nia’s people should surprise them. The base is in the indoor tennis courts at the back of the grounds, Lexa knows from past meetings. Her stomach starts to turn as they get closer and notice people milling around the front of the building. They’re all dressed in short sleeves and cut-offs, limbs exposed to the late summer sun. It’s a nice day. They’re just enjoying the weather, and as Lexa’s group marches towards them, she sees panic flickering across some of their faces.

These aren’t Nia’s fighters. They’re the innocents that Lexa wants spared, and as they get closer, she holds out a hand to stop her people from going any further. Then she raises her arms, a gesture of supplication, a promise that she won’t harm anyone, and addresses the sunbathers in the most diplomatic way that she can manage.

“We’d like an audience with Nia,” she says, and one of the sunbathers, a freckle-faced boy with strawberry-blond curls, tilts his head at her suspiciously.

“That’s a lot of people, just looking for an audience with Nia,” he says. His voice is nasally, untrusting. “Do you usually bring your entire camp with you for a talk?”

Lexa smiles at him pleasantly. “An audience,” she repeats, unsheathing the knife from her belt in one quick movement and pointing it at the boy’s throat. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

The boy’s companions, unarmed, scatter. Some of them run inside the building, but others take off in different directions, probably to warn the others. The boy swallows hard, his Adam’s apple brushing the tip of Lexa’s knife, and looks up at her with hatred in his eyes.

“Come on, then,” he says grudgingly, and with Lexa’s weapon still pointed at him, he leads them inside the building. There are more people in the hall, people who press themselves against the wall and murmur to each other as Lexa passes with her hostage and her army. The boy pushes open the set of double doors that lead to the court and calls out, “Nia. Visitors. They’d like a word with you.”

At the top of the hall, Nia turns, and Lexa feels a familiar surge of hatred. She’s staring at them appraisingly, seemingly unmoved by the fact that Lexa has a knife to one of her people’s throat. She even smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She spreads her arms wide, a cruel parody of a welcome.

“Lexa,” she says. “Well, this is a nice surprise. And you brought friends.”

Lexa releases the boy with the strawberry-blond hair and he reels away from her, rubbing the spot on his throat that her knife grazed. He spits hateful words at her, but she’s not listening. She’s thinking of Roan, back at Camp Polis, insisting that his mother wouldn’t trade her survival for him. Lexa’s people have come here prepared to fight, but now that they’re here, she can’t resist the opportunity to offer her truce. To see if Nia has any humanity in her at all.

If nothing else, it will make Lexa feel better when she slashes her knife across Nia’s throat.

“We have your son at Camp Polis,” she announces, voice cutting across the tennis court like glass. “He murdered one of our own. He’s being held as our prisoner, and we intend to hold him indefinitely.”

“Careless boy,” Nia remarks. “He shouldn’t have let himself get caught.”

“He shouldn’t have killed Niylah,” Lexa shoots back. “We’re prepared to offer you a truce. If you agree to a peace treaty, we’ll spare Roan’s life. That means you’ll return the supplies that you’ve stolen from us. It means no more raiding our stores, no more trespassing on our property, and no more acts of aggression against our people. Roan will remain at Camp Polis as a prisoner, as justice for Niylah’s death, but as long as you comply with our terms, he’ll be safe and unharmed. You can visit him. If you break the terms of the treaty, we’ll kill him.”

She waits for her words to sink in, but Nia is unmoved.

“And what if I were to kill _you_?” she says carelessly. Lexa tenses. “You seem to forget that you’re vastly outnumbered. What’s to stop me from killing all of you, right now, and then sending a group to retrieve Roan and deal with the rest of your little group?”

“The people guarding Roan have instructions to kill him if any of your people so much as approach our gates,” Lexa responds. Nia narrows her eyes, thoughtful.

“It’s an impressive act,” she says, and she genuinely sounds as though she’s pleased with Lexa’s performance. “But you don’t have it in you.” She raises her voice so that it echoes out across the court. “Kill them.”

Lexa has just enough time to react before the strawberry-blond boy, her former hostage, is tackling her to the ground with a hammer grasped in his fist. He’s not an experienced fighter, she can tell by the way his body scrabbles on hers and he hesitates when he raises the hammer, but he’s fuelled by pure rage and blind loyalty. Lexa made him look foolish in front of his companions, and he’s out for her blood.

It’s easier than Lexa thought it would be to kill him. The knife slices through his skin like butter, and when he slides off of her, choking as the blood fills his throat, she doesn’t feel as much remorse as she thought she would.

The Lexa from Before would have died before she harmed anyone, but she supposes that humans can adapt to anything.

Nia’s call to fight has caused chaos to break out in the hall. Her followers are throwing themselves at Lexa’s group, some armed with weapons, others scrabbling with bare hands to inflict any sort of damage that they can. It’s the sheer number of them that makes it difficult. Every time one of them goes down, there’s another to take their place.

Lexa doesn’t kill if she can help it, not after the boy. The lack of regret after she slit his throat frightens her. It’s a feeling she could get used to, and that’s something she can’t afford. So she punches and hits and knocks out where she can, and all the while, she fights her way to the top of the hall, where Nia is watching what’s happening with an expression that borders on boredom. It’s the look on her face that does it, fills Lexa with enough rage to propel her to the front of the room.

These people are willing to die for Nia, and yet all she can do is watch while they throw themselves to their doom. Their lives mean nothing to her.

“You’re a coward,” Lexa shouts over the din as she gets closer to her target. “What, you can’t fight for yourself? You have to let everyone else do it for you, is that it?”

Nia laughs. “Little girl,” she says cruelly, “you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“Neither do you,” Lexa says under her breath.

The fighting is thicker here, people circling Nia in an effort to keep her from the fray, but Lexa’s ruthless. She punches a man who’s trying to tear her knife away from her, sending him reeling. She weaves beneath the axe of a wild-eyed redhead who looks like she might be related to the boy that Lexa killed. She shoves an older woman to the ground without a second thought, and then she’s there, at Nia’s side, breathing heavily and holidng her knife so tightly that her knuckles have turned white.

If this were a movie, Lexa would make some witty quip. Nia would banter back. Then Lexa would say that this was for Niylah, for all of the suffering that Nia put their group through, for her utter lack of empathy for her followers and Lexa’s alike. There would be a moment of catharsis, where Lexa knew that she was doing the right thing.

There’s none of that. She grips Nia by the hair, drags her head downwards and slices her throat in one quick, fluid motion, and then it’s over. Nia’s eyes widen and her hands scrabble at her throat. She tries to speak, but she can’t. Her end is messy and painful, and Lexa doesn’t feel an ounce of regret for it.

It seems as though once Nia’s body falls to the ground, slack, that the fighting should stop immediately. It doesn’t, though. The chaos continues, and even as Lexa’s fingers are loosening around the handle of her knife, more of Nia’s people are converging on her. Weariness rolls over her, an intense, burning desire for this to be over.

“Enough!” she shouts, reeling to the side as a man with unkempt blond hair charges at her, fists raised. Her shout is lost among the noise. She aims a punch for the man’s gut, screams louder so that her throat aches and her ears ring with the noise of her own voice. “ _ENOUGH!_ ”

Some of those closest to her stop, caught off-guard by the banshee shriek. Then they spot Nia’s body, lying motionless on the ground now, blood seeping from the wound in her throat. Murmurs spread through the hall — _Nia’s dead, it’s over, she killed her_ — and slowly, all eyes come to rest on Lexa as she stands over her kill, chest heaving.

“It’s over,” she calls out, clear as a bell. They’re hanging on her every word now. “Put your weapons down. Nia is dead. Your fight is over.” She waits for an outcry, for those closest to Nia to surge at her in another bid for revenge, but no one moves. Lexa continues, encouraged. “I know that most of you fought for her today out of loyalty. Let me be very clear — that won’t be held against you. Stand down now and you’ll have a place with us at Camp Polis.”

The hall is silent. Lexa is sure that if a pin dropped, the noise would echo across the room like a gong.

Then a boy with dark hair and wide-set eyes straightens up from a crouch. He stands tall, commanding attention, and in a steady voice, he asks if that applies to all of them.

His shark’s eyes are all too familiar. They leave Lexa with a pit of dread in her stomach. The last time she saw those eyes, they were narrowed with hatred. The last time she heard that voice, it was spitting obsceneties.

Murphy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke's group reach Mount Weather at last.

It looks different than Clarke expected.

They’ve spent all night walking since leaving the country club, all of them eager to get as far away from unnerving Nia and her silent followers as possible. Dawn is just starting to break, and the mountain is lit from behind by a warm orange glow that illuminates the buildings set into the hillside. There’s a lot of them, squat, cosy bungalows with sloping tile roofs and front doors painted in bright, cheerful colours.

These are the houses that were built to house the families of researchers who came to work at Mount Weather, the homes that were made to look a certain way so that people wouldn’t think about the fact that they were cutting themselves off from the rest of the world. They look bright and welcoming because that’s the way they’re supposed to look. It’s easier to make someone commit to leaving the outside world behind if you present them with a pretty picture to look forward to. The more that Clarke stares at them, however, the more she notices that the paint on the doors is chipped, and the windows are covered in dust and grime. Judging from their state of disrepair, they’re just as abandoned as the city that Clarke and her group left behind.

“Not a good sign,” Bellamy murmurs, but Clarke shakes her head.

“These are just for show,” she says softly. “These houses were built for the families, to persuade them to come. There’s more to this place than meets the eye.” She cranes her neck. “If there’s a safe zone, it’s going to be underground, where all of the labs and facilities are. They’re built into the mountain.”

“If they’re built into the mountain, then how are we supposed to let them know that we’re here?” Octavia asks. Her voice is strained with exhaustion. She’s been acting as Raven’s crutch for the last hour or so, after Wick grew too tired and started to stumble. She hasn’t let on how tiring it was, but when Clarke turns to look at her now, she notices the dark rings beneath Octavia’s eyes. She’s exhausted.

They all are. As Clarke’s gaze roves over her friends, she takes in the weariness on their faces and the dimming hope in their eyes. Mount Weather is not what any of them expected. There’s no welcome committee, no banner proclaiming safe haven, no sure sign that they’ve actually reached the safe zone they’ve been dreaming of so desperately for the last few days. All they can see is the houses, and they’re unimpressed.

“There’s a way in,” Clarke says with a confidence that she doesn’t quite feel. “All we have to do is find the door. Easy.”

She wants so badly for it to be easy.

“Clarke’s right,” Bellamy says after a moment, and she’s never been more grateful for him than right now. If she had to keep morale up alone, she doesn’t think that she would have managed. “A few of us should look around and see what we can find. Everyone else can take a rest — Finn, Raven, you both definitely need to sit down.”

Finn nods and lowers himself to the ground, joined a moment later by Raven. Finn is still whey-faced and unsteady; he hasn’t complained much about his arm, but every movement is clearly painful for him. He hasn’t been able to walk unsupported since leaving the country club. Clarke would have liked to give him more painkillers to dull the ache, but their pathetic stash is back with Nia, so he’s had to grit his teeth and bear it.

If they can get inside the mountain, they can get Finn some proper medical attention. For now, though, all that Clarke can give him is a reassuring smile. Then she turns to Bellamy.

“Let’s go find that door.”

“I’m coming too,” Jasper says, stepping forward. Clarke’s surprised by his eagerness, but then notices Miller and Monty behind him, sitting far closer than is necessary, strictly speaking. Jasper’s afraid of being a third wheel. It’s a problem that Clarke herself was all too familiar with before the world went to shit, so she doesn’t try and dissuade him. Flanked by Jasper and Bellamy, she starts trudging uphill.

They walk in silence, everyone’s focus directed towards finding that one little thing that might be out of place enough to indicate an entrance. Clarke expects it to be tough. Everything she remembers about Mount Weather screams security and seclusion. The whole point of the mountain research facility was to close its scientists off from the rest of the world. It stands to reason that they would make its entrance difficult to discover.

As they climb higher, the amount of houses lessens. Clarke stumbles over a rock and lands on her hands and knees, and for a half a moment, she thinks that she’s found a hidden door, but it’s just a divot in the hillside. Jasper helps her to her feet and they carry on. Clarke’s hopes diminish more and more with every second that passes, until finally, Bellamy’s hand shoots out to wrap around her wrist, and he breathes out a hurried plea to _wait._

“Do you guys see that?” he says, voice low and urgent, excited. Clarke follows the line of his pointed finger and amazingly, she does see it. Her breath catches in her throat. Glinting in the early morning sunlight is a pair of sealed silver doors, set right into the hillside.

The doorway looks bizarre and out of place. The sleek silver surface looks wrong amid the lush green grass that surrounds it, too modern and futuristic for the landscape. Unlike the houses, the door has clearly been looked after recently. The silver is polished and clean. There’s no rust around the edges. There’s an intercom set into the wall beside it, with a row of gleaming black buttons.

“Is it real?” Jasper says. “I mean, I’m not hallucinating this, right? You guys see it too? Big, silver door, looks like something out of _Star Trek_?”

Clarke lets out a little laugh, shaky, verging on hysterical. “We see it too, Jasper,” she says. The feeling of relief is heady and delicious. “Come on. We have to get the others. We have to go in together.”

She’s half-afraid that if they leave to get the others, the door will be gone when they come back. But it’s still there when they return, shining brightly in the sun, daring them to knock. With the rest of the group watching with bated breath and wide eyes, Clarke approaches the intercom and presses down on the bell. A loud buzzing noise rents the air, and after a few tense, terrifying seconds, a voice issues from the speaker, tinny and charged with static.

“Is someone there?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, her voice cracking. “There’s a group of us here. We’re looking for the safe zone.” She hesitates. “Is there still a safe zone?”

There’s a brief pause and then laughter makes the speaker crackle. “Of course there’s still a safe zone! How many in your group?”

“Twelve. Some of us are wounded. Do you have a medic?” 

“We have an infirmary. I’m going to send someone down to meet you. Hang tight.”

The speaker turns off and Clarke steps back, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. The others converge on her, everyone speaking at once, wondering what they’re going to find inside the mountain. Clarke can’t even bring herself to speculate. It’s as though all of the energy drained out of her the moment that the voice on the other end of the intercom confirmed that they’d found the safe zone.

Since Wells’s death, Clarke has felt like the most important thing she had to do was keep the rest of her friends safe long enough to find somewhere where they could do more than just survive. Now, she thinks that she’s succeeded, and suddenly all she wants to do is sleep for a very, very long time.

The others are still speculating about what’s inside Mount Weather when a mechanical whirring noise comes from the doors, and they slowly slide back to reveal two figures clad in hazmat suits. One of them, a man, raises his hand in greeting and then gives a slight shrug, almost apologetic.

“Sorry about the suits,” he says, voice muffled, “but it’s just until we inspect you for bites. You understand, right?”

_Of course_ , Clarke thinks. A safe zone doesn’t stay safe unless it takes precautions. She and the rest of her friends are led inside the mountain, into a long corridor that leads down to a room decorated entirely in white. It’s lit with fluorescent lights that make the dirt and grime on Clarke’s skin stand out even more than before. Rows of beds are slotted against the walls, and boxes of medical supplies are stacked on shelves. The infirmary.

There are others waiting inside, all of them dressed in the same hazmat suits. What happens next is brisk and professional. One by one, Clarke and her friends are led behind a curtain, asked to strip, and inspected for lurker bites. When Miller, first up, enquires snarkily about what will happen if he refuses to disrobe, the man examining him calmly replies that he will be ejected from the mountain. There’s no nonsense about the reply. After that, everyone submits to searches quietly.

Raven’s limp is checked over, the wound on her leg confirmed not to be a bite. By the time it’s Finn’s turn to be examined, the hazmat suits have come off and most of the inspectors have left the room, leaving Clarke’s group alone with the man and woman who let them into the mountain in the first place. The woman examines Finn’s amputated arm closely, lips pursed and eyebrows knit closely together. Clarke watches the examination tensely, terrified that something will seem amiss.

“It’s not a bad amputation,” the woman says at last. “I’m assuming it was done under considerable duress, but the cut is clean. Whoever cauterised it did a decent job. Who’s responisble for this?”

“I am,” Clarke says. “He was bitten.”

“I figured,” the woman replies wryly. “But you caught it in time to stop the infection from spreading. Not many people know that it can be done. I applaud you for your quick thinking. Are you a doctor?”

“I was a med student.”

“A shame you didn’t get to fully develop your talents. My name is Dr Tsing,” the woman says. “I run the infirmary here. Perhaps you can help out sometimes, if you and your friends decide to stay.”

The sound of a throat clearing stops Clarke from replying, and the man who led them into the mountain steps forward. He’s removed the helmet of his suit now, revealing a pale, boyish face. He smiles, but there’s something about it that unsettles Clarke. Lack of warmth, she realises after a moment. It’s a show smile.

“I’m Cage Wallace,” he says, voice smarmy and slick with self-confidence. “My father is the one who secured the safe zone. He was one of the lead researchers here when the crisis broke out. You’ll meet him, if you decide to stay.”

“If?” Octavia repeats the word, hard as glass. It’s the second time that someone has implied they might want to leave. “If it’s safe here, why wouldn’t we stay?”

Cage smiles again, shark-like. “Figure of speech. Of course you’re staying. Dr Tsing, if you’re all finished here…?”

The doctor finishes replacing Finn’s bandage, slips him a few pills and a cup of water and then straightens up with a nod. Cage takes a radio from the pocket of his hazmat suit and murmurs something into it. The response on the other end is muffled, but Cage obviously understands it. He informs Clarke’s group that someone will be along shortly to give them a tour, and then he and Dr Tsing leave the infirmary, heads bent together in conversation.

When they leave, there’s a moment of hushed silence. Now that they’re here at last, none of them are quite sure what to say. For Clarke, the relief at finding the safe zone intact has faded. Her guard is up. She doesn’t like the way that Cage spoke to them — not his choice of words, or his tone, or those disturbing smiles that accompanied every sentence. She doesn’t trust the glint in his eyes. Even Dr Tsing with her compliments about Clarke’s skills as a medic seems off, somehow.

“Clarke?” Bellamy says, watching her. “Something up?”

She hesitates and then shakes her head, unwilling to voice her concerns with nothing to back them up. She reminds herself that she’s exhausted and paranoid. It’s natural that she’s searching for danger behind every new face she encounters, but until she has solid proof that there’s something off about Cage and Dr Tsing, she’s going to keep it to herself. No point in upsetting everyone else based on a hunch. Not until it looks like they’re in danger.

They sit on the beds while they wait for their tour guide to arrive. Conversation is sparse; they’re all drained from spending the night walking, and Clarke suspects that if their guide doesn’t arrive soon, her friends might just pass out right here in the infirmary. The thought has barely entered her mind when the infirmary door opens to reveal a young woman with a cloud of dark brown hair and olive skin. She smiles at them a little shyly and raises a hand in greeting.

“Hi. I’m Maya. Cage asked me to show you around the mountain. Are you ready?”

They follow Maya out of the infirmary, two by two. She leads them through a mass of hallways, pointing out doors that lead to laboratories, rec rooms, dormitories, a kitchen. The sheer size of the mountain is staggering. Every time that Clarke thinks they must have reached the end, Maya leads them around another corner. Hundreds could survive in here for decades, with the right supplies.

Maya’s been here since the very beginning, she tells them — or rather, tells Jasper, who’s fallen into step with their pretty tour guide and is hanging on her every word. She reveals that she and her father used to live in one of the bungalows set into the side of the mountain. He worked in one of the laboratories as a research assistant. They moved underground when the lurkers first started roaming. It was Dante Wallace who brought everyone together, Maya says, and he’s been looking after them ever since.

“How many people live here?” Monty asks. Clarke can practically see the gears turning in his mind, ready to work out how likely it is that Mount Weather can continue to sustain them. To see if the safe zone is a sustainable one, too.

“Not many. About a hundred,” Maya says after thinking for a moment. “It’s just like having a big family, I guess.”

A hundred. It seems too few for the mountain. Clarke thinks suddenly of Lexa and the scouts from her group who left for the mountain and never came back. Lexa only gave her one name, but it stands out in her mind now as clearly as a flashing neon sign.

“Is there a girl named Echo living here?” she asks. “She would have arrived here recently, in the last week or two.”

Maya hums thoughtfully. “It sounds familiar, but I don’t think she stuck around. We had a girl pass through last week. She stayed the night and was gone the next morning. That happens a lot around here.”

Clarke frowns, and before she can reply, ever-suspicious Miller jumps in with the question that she wants to ask.

“Why would anyone leave a safe zone once they found it?”

“Well, there are rules here,” Maya says with a shrug, “and I guess since the crisis, not everyone likes to follow the rules. When people arrive here, Dante tells them how things are going to be, and if they don’t want to go along with that then he asks them to leave.”

“Asks them or makes them?” Octavia mutters under her breath. Either Maya doesn’t hear her, or she pretends not to for the sake of remaining friendly.

The tour concludes in one of the rec rooms, lined with bookshelves that are filled with books and DVDs. The floor space is cluttered up with couches and tables laid out with cards, dominos, chess. Some of the gaming tables are occupied by pairs. The couches are taken up by readers. Music issues from a speaker set into one of the walls. The overall atmosphere in the room is peaceful, calming. Utterly unlike everything that lays outside the walls of Mount Weather.

A white-haired man occupies one of the card tables by himself, engaged in a game of solitaire. Maya gestures for his attention and then, in a polite and respectful tone, she introduces Clarke and her group. He gets to his feet, gives a welcoming smile and introduces himself as Dante Wallace. Cage’s father, the man who secured the safe zone. Clarke searches for the resemblance between him and his unsettlingly confident son, but she can find none. For all intents and purposes, he just looks like a kindly old man.

“Welcome to Mount Weather. I’m glad that you found us. Not many people manage the journey,” he says. Clarke thinks again of Lexa and her lost people.

“A friend of ours sent some scouting parties to find you,” she says. “None of them ever came back. Have any other groups found you recently?”

Something unreadable passes over Dante’s face. He composes himself.

“No groups. We usually take in lone survivors.”

“A girl, then,” Clarke presses, wanting more than the nothing answer that Maya gave her. “A girl named Echo? It would have been just last week.”

“Yes, Echo,” Dante replies, his voice suddenly taking on an over-dramatic tone of melancholy. “A sad case, that one. She was all alone in the world. Lost her family to the dead and then tried to make a living for herself in the city, until it was overrun. We tried to persuade her to stay when she arrived here, but the poor girl was just too overcome with everything that she’d been through. She left in the middle of the night.”

A chill works its way down Clarke’s spine. Maybe Echo did lose her family to the dead, but she wasn’t living anywhere near the city. She was one of Lexa’s original group. Dante Wallace is lying.

“A shame,” Clarke says, trying to keep her tone controlled so that Dante won’t know that she’s figured him out.

“A shame,” he agrees, and then claps his hands. “But onto happier things! All of you have found your way here, and you are _more_ than welcome to stay. However, I’m sure Maya told you that we have rules, and we will have to ask you to adhere to them if you decide to remain in Mount Weather.”

He starts to list off a set of basic rules, none of which sound too outlandish — curfews, restrictions on venturing outside, food rationing — and though she nods along as though she’s agreeing, Clarke is thinking of Echo, and why Dante lied. When he finishes rattling off his rules, he asks if they’re willing to comply. It’s a yes all round, but glancing around at the faces of her friends, Clarke can see that some of them are just as suspicious as she is.

Octavia is staring at Dante with outright distrust. Monty and Miller look wary. Bellamy’s lip is curled up in the way that means he’s not quite sure about something. But then there are others who look like all of their dreams have just come true. Jasper is practically beaming, and Fox, gentle Fox who hated the outside more than any of them, just looks overwhelmed with relief.

It kills Clarke that she’s going to have to dash their hopes, but she knows now that something isn’t right here. Perhaps Dante’s lie is a harmless one, designed to put their minds at ease, but then maybe it’s not. Maybe something terrible happened to Echo here and he’s covering it up.

Whatever the reason for Dante’s lie, Clarke intends to get to the bottom of it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lexa regroups after the battle with Nia and Murphy offers up some valuable information.

Murphy drops the weapon in his hand, a bloodstained hammer, and then advances with his hands raised towards the top of the hall where Lexa still stands. He’s approaching with a gesture of peace, but Lexa still takes up a defensive stance, recalling all too well the vitriol with which he spewed obsceneties at her the last time they saw one another. He raises his eyebrows at her, but then shrugs his shoulders slightly. An acquiescence. Admittance that maybe he does deserve to be treated with caution.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Lexa demands.

“You kicked me out of my last group, remember?” he says. “No one can survive out there without someone to watch their back.”

Lincoln advances on Murphy from behind and grabs his arms, stopping him from getting any closer to Lexa. Murphy cranes his neck and recognises his captor. He gives a low laugh.

“I don’t think anything about this situation is funny,” Lincoln growls, but Murphy continues to laugh anyway. The sound of it is like nails on a chalkboard to Lexa. She’s overcome suddenly with the urge to hit Murphy, but before she can take even one step forward, Anya and Indra make for the top of the hall.

“I hate to break up this little reunion,” Anya says quietly, clearly confused by Murphy and Lexa’s exchange, “but Gustus is pretty messed up. We need to get him patched up or he’s going to bleed out.”

Lexa follows Anya’s line of sight and sees Gustus laying on the floor, hands pressed to a pulsing wound in his stomach. He’s not the only one who’s injured. It’s mostly Nia’s people, but several of Lexa’s people have fallen to the ground or are being supported by friends. They need to start attending to the wounded. Lexa would like to treat Gustus back at Camp Polis, in their own infirmary, but there isn’t enough time. She signals to Nyko, standing by the door surrounded by fallen enemies.

“Tend to Gustus, Nyko,” she calls. Then she turns to Anya and Indra. “Help Nyko take care of the wounded. See if any of Nia’s people have medical knowledge. And get them to give you whatever medicines and bandages they’ve got.”

“What are you going to do?” Anya asks, eyebrows raised. Lexa’s eyes flicker back to Murphy, still held in place by Lincoln.

“I have to find out what that little worm is doing here,” she breathes out. She slides her knife into her belt and then strides towards Lincoln and Murphy. “Follow me, Lincoln.”

She leads them out of the tennis courts. One of the nearby buildings used to be a restaurant of some sort. Lexa heads there, with Lincoln following at her heels and dragging Murphy behind him. He’s stopped laughing at last, but he’s muttering something under his breath as Lincoln hauls him onwards. The unintelligible muttering gives Lexa the creeps.

Inside the restaurant, she grabs a chair and sets it down in the centre of the room, gesturing for Lincoln to release Murphy. He does, though not without whispering a threat in his ear first so that Murphy knows exactly what will happen if he tries to run. Running seems to be the last thing on his mind, though. He takes the seat that Lexa’s set aside for him and stretches out, making himself comfortable. He folds his arms across his chest and raises his gaze to meet Lexa’s, dark blue eyes meeting fierce green ones. Lexa has to give him credit. He doesn’t falter.

“How did you end up here?” Lincoln asks, leaning against a pillar. Lexa opts for the more comfortable option and drags out a chair for herself, setting it opposite Murphy. The boy’s gaze shifts from her to Lincoln and he shrugs, looking bored.

“Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lexa says, the word coming out almost as a growl, though she’s not sure why it does matter. “You should have died out there by yourself. How did you manage to make it through the city and get here without getting ambushed by biters?”

Murphy sighs. “I didn’t,” he says irritably. “They brought me here, alright? I was in the forest beating off a bunch of the dead and then a group of guys came across me and said they had a safe place. I think they saw me fighting and thought I’d be useful.”

“Useful for what? Who was Nia planning to fight?”

Murphy stares at Lexa, dumbfounded. “You’re kidding, right? You. Were we in the same hall just now?”

“She knew that we were going to come to avenge Niylah,” Lincoln chimes in. “She had to know that. She had the numbers, but not the warriors, so when her scouts came across Murphy in the forest it must have seemed like it was meant to be.”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” Murphy says. “It didn’t work. Your people slaughtered hers.”

The phrase makes Lexa flinch. “We only killed when we had no other choice.”

“Relax, it’s a figure of speech.” Murphy looks closer at Lexa, his gaze turning scrutinising. “Hey, listen. What you said in there, about everyone being welcome at your camp…” He hesitates, and then, as if angry at himself for stopping, he curses. “Fuck, did you mean it? Or did you mean everyone but me?”

It’s Lexa’s turn to hesitate. When she said the words, she meant everyone inside the tennis court — but that was before she knew that Murphy was there. Looking at him now, all she can think of is how quick he was to draw his gun when one of his friends was injured. How immediately angry he became when he sensed that things might not be going his way. How eager he was to come to blows with her when she wouldn’t give him the information that he wanted, and the vitriol he spewed at both Lexa and Clarke when Clarke’s group made the decision to leave him behind.

She hesitates just a moment too long, and Murphy gets to his feet, shaking his head in disgust. “Forget it,” he says. “I’m out of here.”

He’s almost at the door when Lexa hears herself call his name. “Murphy. Wait.”

He turns, resignation already on his face, waiting for the final blow to his ego. “What?”

“You’re a real piece of work,” Lexa says. It’s not what she initially intended, but she can’t help it. The hangdog expression on his face irritates her. What right does he have to look so wounded when there are bodies lying back in the tennis court? He survived. Against all odds, he survived, and he has the gall to look like a martyr.

“Don’t hold back,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Don’t act like a martyr when you brought your situation on yourself,” Lexa shoots back, getting to her feet so that she can match him gaze for gaze. “You want to bitch and moan about how I got you kicked out of your group? Bullshit, Murphy. You got yourself kicked out by being a paranoid, gun-happy lunatic. Clarke’s decision had nothing to do with me, and the sooner you take responsibility for your own stupid decisions, the sooner I’ll consider letting you into my camp.”

Remembering the fury that Murphy showed when he was challenged in Clarke’s group, Lexa expects him to storm off after her outburst. She can’t say that it would bother her too much. But instead, he stays where he is, considering. He gives the slightest shrug of his shoulders, smiles a twisted sort of smile, and then nods.

“You know what,” he says, “maybe you’re right.”

Lexa blinks at him. “What did you just say?”

“I said maybe you’re right,” he repeats, shrugging properly this time. “I shouldn’t have tried to shoot Raven, and yeah, I probably should have owned up to that and apologised for it when it happened. Clarke’s not the type to just cut someone loose unless she really has to. I bet it killed her, leaving me behind.”

“You didn’t give her a choice,” Lexa says. Her voice is faint. She’s still vaguely stunned that Murphy just admitted to being in the wrong.

“Yeah, maybe. Can’t change it now, though.” He makes for the door again, but Lincoln speaks up, stopping him in his tracks.

“You could do better.”

“What?”

“Do better,” Lincoln says. “Make up for past mistakes by doing better in the future.” He looks at Lexa, asking for silent permission, and then adds, “Come to Camp Polis with us.” At Murphy’s shocked expression, he laughs. “What, you think you’re gonna make it on you’re own out there? You got lucky, running into Nia’s people. I don’t think you’ll be that lucky this time around.”

Murphy looks back at Lexa, questioning, and she gives a shrug of her own.

“I killed someone today,” she says. “More than one someone. I don’t think I’m in a moral position to judge you anymore. If you want to come to Camp Polis, there’s a place for you there.” She narrows her eyes at him, suddenly afraid of seeming too lenient. “But make no mistake, Murphy — if you so much as _think_ about harming one of my people, I’ll do to you what I did to Nia, except this time, I won’t make it quick.”

“Noted,” Murphy says, and that’s that. It’s decided. He’s coming back to Camp Polis with them, and it’s a decision that Lexa’s not entirely happy with, but she thinks it’s the right one. There’s been enough death today. Refuse to allow Murphy into camp, and he’ll almost definitely die on his own. She doesn’t want that on her conscience, not after the strawberry blond boy she killed today.

With Murphy taken care of, they head back to the tennis court to see how the wounded are faring. They’re greeted by a sombre-faced Indra, who puts a hand on Lexa’s shoulder when she walks into the hall. She probably intends it to be comforting, but Indra’s not one for physical affection, so all it does is make Lexa wary. Her suspicions that something is wrong are confirmed immediately.

“Gustus is dead,” Indra says, and something breaks apart inside of Lexa.

Gustus has been with her from the very beginning, when the dead first started to rise and the streets became unsafe. Before, he was the security guard at her on-campus housing. Now… now he’s dead. Tears well up in Lexa’s eyes, unbidden, and she swipes them away before anyone can see.

She would like to fall to the ground, scream, cry, howl at the unfairness of it all. But she has to keep up the appearance of strength, especially in front of Nia’s people, who she needs to sway to her side. So she tilts her chin up, meets Indra’s eyes with a steady gaze, and swallows back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her.

“What happened?” she asks, and she’s relieved to find that her voice doesn’t shake.

“He took a spear to the abdomen,” Indra says, voice low, as if by speaking quietly she can dull the pain that pierces Lexa with every word. “Nyko tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too severe. There were others to tend to. He said that the only way Gustus would have survived is if we had access to an operating theatre. He died quickly.”

A small mercy, Lexa supposes. Even if Gustus suffered, it wouldn’t have been for long.

“The others?” she asks. “How many dead?”

“Of our own?” Indra says. “Seven. Gustus, Tristan, Quint, Fio, Tris, Ryder, Penn. Most were killed outright during the fighting. Gustus and Tris succumbed to injuries.”

“And Nia’s people?” Lincoln asks. “How many of them are dead?”

“I’d estimate around thirty,” Indra replies. “And many more wounded. Nyko and Anya are tending to them now.”

Nearly forty people dead. Lexa’s stomach turns and she has to turn away so that no one can see the discomfort on her face. She’s suddenly filled with a burst of rage that Nia forced them to this. If she had just agreed to the truce, Lexa and her people would have retreated peacefully. No one had to die. In this new, dying world, human life is more valuable than ever, and nearly forty human lives have been snuffed out over what started as a petty disagreement.

It makes Lexa sick.

“We should burn the dead,” she says, her voice sounding distant and far away even to her own ears. Burning the dead wouldn’t be her first choice, but there are too many to bury. Cremation was a legitimate form of burial Before, so she supposes it shouldn’t be any different now. Indra nods.

“I’ll gather some volunteers to take care of it.”

She moves away and starts to thread her way through the crowd again, leaving Lexa alone with Lincoln and Murphy. Lexa drags a hand back through her hair, fingers snagging in her braids, and looks up at Lincoln with strain in her eyes.

“We can’t spend the night here,” she says. “Not after what happened here today. We need to get back to Camp Polis before nightfall.”

She can’t stay here with the ghosts of the dead. Even with the bodies burned, she knows that she’ll feel their eyes watching her while she sleeps. Murphy seems confused by the fervency in her tone, but Lincoln nods, understanding.

“Once the injured are able to walk, we’ll go,” he promises. “What about Nia’s people, Lexa?”

She looks around the hall at the survivors from Nia’s group. There’s a lot of them left, even with Indra’s estimated death count. Lexa suspects that a lot of them despise her for what she did to their leader, but another part of her thinks that some of them may be grateful. Nia was hardly known for being kind or benevolent. She tolerated most people and abused others. The pretty boys she surrounded herself with might miss her, maybe the fiercer members of the group who had earned her respect. But the elderly, the children, the people who either can’t or aren’t willing to fight, they will thank Lexa for her part in Nia’s death.

“I already offered up Camp Polis as a safe haven,” Lexa says. “Whoever wants to join us can join us. If they don’t want to, then they can stay behind here. I don’t think they’ll be raiding our supplies anymore after what happened today.”

Nyko approaches, wearied and covered in blood that’s not his own. There are lines of stress on his face that Lexa doesn’t think were there this morning, though she can’t be sure.

“I’ve done what I can to stabilise the wounded,” he tells her, “but there have been casualties. Gustus—”

“I know,” Lexa cuts him off, not wanting to hear it spoken aloud again. “You’ve done well, Nyko. How soon before the wounded can walk? We want to get back to Camp Polis as soon as we can.”

“Most should be able to make the journey to camp now,” Nyko says after a moment’s thought. “It isn’t ideal, but it may be for the best. We have more medical supplies at home than there are here, and there’s the infirmary. I think we should move out as soon as possible.”

Relieved, Lexa lets out a breath that she didn’t realise she’d been holding. She had been afraid that Nyko would insist on keeping the patients here overnight, but he seems just as eager to get away from this place as Lexa is. Maybe she’s not the only one seeing ghosts in the walls.

With Nyko’s blessing, they make plans to move out and head for Camp Polis within the hour. To Lexa’s amazement, all of Nia’s people agree to accompany them. She had expected at least one or two holdouts, but it seems that no one is willing to take their chances alone. Lexa doesn’t blame them. Despite the casualties of the day, they leave the country club with a much larger group than they came there with.

The journey home seems somehow both quicker and longer than the journey to the country club. They run into several herds of biters on the way home, which is less than ideal, but they manage to dispatch them without incident. By the time that they reach the gates of Camp Polis, the sun is beginning to set.

They’re admitted to the campground by some of those who stayed behind to keep guard, who let up cheers of victory when they see Lexa leading the group onto the grounds. They will want the full story, Lexa knows, but she’s too exhausted to offer it up right now. She assigns Indra the task of finding dormitories for Nia’s people, tells Anya to check on Roan, gives Nyko permission to use whatever supplies in the infirmary that he thinks he might need to treat the wounded, and then she retreats to her own cabin with dreams of her bed and the sleep that she missed out on last night.

She’s barely lain her head on the pillow when a sharp knock comes on her door. She contemplates ignoring it, pretending that she’s already fast asleep, but even as she considers it, the knocking gets more urgent. With a sigh, Lexa throws back her covers and gets to her feet, irritated. Her irritation only increases when she opens the door to find an agitated Murphy. He pushes past her into the cabin without asking for permission, and Lexa feels a spark of anger.

“Indra will assign you a cabin,” she says irritably. “But you can’t have _this_ one, and I’m trying to get some sleep so if you don’t mind—”

“Where are my friends?” Murphy interrupts. Lexa blinks at him. She wasn’t expecting that.

“Your friends? You mean Clarke and the others?”

“Yeah, Clarke, Bellamy, those guys,” Murphy says. He sounds frantic, which isn’t a state that Lexa would normally associate with Murphy. “You brought them here, right? After the daycare? This is where you were headed when you left me behind.”

“It’s where Lincoln and I were headed,” Lexa corrects him. “Your friends came this far and then went their own way to go find the mountain. We invited them to stay, but they wanted to get to Mount Weather.”

“Shit,” Murphy says. All of the colour has drained from his face. “ _Shit_ , I thought that they stayed here. I just assumed — you were all acting so chummy — _fuck_ , they really went to the mountain? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Lexa says. She’s growing more irritated by Murphy with each second that passes, especially because the panic in his voice is making her own stomach knot up with concern. The mere mention of the mountain made Murphy turn white as a ghost. “Do you know something about the mountain? What happens to the people there? We sent scouting parties, but they never came back.”

Murphy laughs, a high, hysterical giggle that makes Lexa’s blood turn to ice. “Yeah, I know about the mountain,” he says in a strangled voice. “Nia told me about it when her boys brought me in. It’s real fucked up, Lexa.”

“What is?” she demands. “Spit it out, Murphy.”

He spits it out. She wishes he hadn’t.

She needs to get to Clarke and her friends.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke's group are suspicious of Mount Weather.

After their impromptu meeting with Dante, Maya brings Clarke and her group to one of the dormitories. It’s separate from the others, a low, dark room with just enough beds for their group. Clarke’s suspicions stir at the fact that they’re being kept apart from the rest of the inhabitants of Mount Weather, but she smiles and thanks Maya for her help, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

“You must be exhausted,” Maya says. “You should take a nap before lunch. Someone will come and get you before we eat, so don’t worry about missing it.” She points out a door on the far wall, flanked by two free-standing closets. “That’s the bathroom. There’s some showers in there — you’ll probably want to wash up before you eat. And there’s fresh clothes in the closets. I’m not sure how they’ll fit, but they should do until we can wash your clothes.”

Clarke doesn’t let her smile slip until Maya has left the room with a wink and a smile in Jasper’s direction. It’s only then that she turns to the group, heart heavy with the knowledge that she has to dash their hopes about the safe zone.

She was going to keep everything to herself until Dante lied to her. Now, Clarke is convinced that something is wrong at Mount Weather, and she doesn’t want to investigate it alone.

“He lied,” she says. “When I asked Dante Wallace about Echo, he lied.”

She expects an immediate outcry, an insistence that she’s imagining things, but to her relief, there are nods among her friends. She counts the heads; Miller, Monty, Harper, Bellamy, Octavia. Jasper and Fox are the only ones who look ready to disagree with her. The others seem undecided, but they don’t jump in to argue.

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Octavia says. “Lincoln told me about her when we were walking to Camp Polis. She never had to survive on her own. She was with Lexa’s group from the beginning. She was one of the ones who helped them secure the campground.”

“But why would he lie?”

Jasper, sounding suspicious, but not at Wallace. He’s looking at Clarke with distrust in his eyes, and the worst part is that Clarke can’t blame him. Here’s a place where they could be safe at last, a veritable fortress filled with medical supplies and food and real beds. There’s electricity. There’s working plumbing. It’s a dream come true, and here’s Clarke, crushing it before they’ve even had a chance to really enjoy it.

She hates that she has to do it, but her instincts are telling her that something is wrong, and if she ignored them and something happened, she would never be able to forgive herself.

“I don’t know, Jasper,” Clarke admits. “But he did, and I don’t like it. Don’t you feel like there’s something about this place that’s not quite… right?”

“Cage seemed off,” Miller puts in, shrugging when Jasper turns his stare on him. “I didn’t like the guy. Something about the way he looked us over.”

“Like animals at an auction,” Harper agrees.

Beside her, Monroe nods slowly like she’s just realised something. Finn bites his lip, considering. Raven and Wick exchange a look, some silent communication passing between them Looking at all of them, Clarke knows that they’re thinking about it, remembering their medical examinations and the way that they were greeted at the door. Harper’s description is exactly right. Cage and Dr Tsing weren’t looking at them like fellow survivors. They were looking at them like they were trying to gauge exactly how much they were worth.

“Guys, come on,” Jasper says, sounding desperate. “This place is great! Why are you trying to find something wrong with it?”

“We’re not trying, Jasper, that’s the point,” Octavia says. “We don’t have to. It’s right there in front of us. The people who let us in are creepy, and the guy who runs the place lied right to our faces about Echo. You’re seriously telling me that you don’t find it just a little bit weird that he made up that story? I mean, what would he have to gain from lying?”

“You don’t know that he was lying! Maybe that’s what Echo told him when she got here!”

Clarke thinks about that for a moment, tries to suspend her disbelief long enough to consider it as an actual possibility. Sure, maybe Echo lied when she got here, to protect Lexa and the others at Camp Polis. They thought the mountain was dangerous — it’s not unreasonable to think that Echo would come up with a cover story to protect her people, until she knew if it was safe here. But if she left the mountain like Wallace claims she did, then why didn’t she go back to Camp Polis? It just doesn’t make sense. Jasper is grasping at straws.

Something else occurs to Clarke.

“Why doesn’t anyone stay?” she says. “Remember what Maya said? People leave. It happens a lot. If this place is really as great as it seems, then why wouldn’t anyone want to stay?”

“They don’t agree with the rules,” Jasper says stubbornly, “just like Maya told us.”

“The rules aren’t that crazy, Jasper,” Finn says. “I don’t think someone would volunteer to take their chances on the outside because of a curfew.”

“You’re just looking for something to be wrong with this place!” Jasper says. He’s starting to sound hysterical. “We’ve finally found somewhere where we don’t have to look over our shoulders for lurkers every second and you can’t let your guard down for _one second_ to appreciate it.”

“Or you’ve just gotten so distracted by a pretty girl that you can’t even take a second to consider that this place might not be as safe as you think it is,” Monty mutters under his breath. Jasper whirls on him and pushes him hard, sending him stumbling back onto one of the beds. Miller steps in between them, shoulders squared, and narrows his eyes at Jasper.

“Try that again. I dare you.”

There’s a tense moment where Jasper and Miller stare at one another and the rest of the group look on, holding their breath. Jasper and Monty are best friends. They’ve been joined at the hip since they were little kids. Clarke doesn’t think that Jasper would ever do anything to really hurt Monty, but the shove was enough to shock all of them into silence. At last, Jasper breaks eye contact with Miller and turns, putting his hands on the back of his head. Monty gets to his feet and Miller places a hand on the small of his back, a silent question, _are you okay._ Monty nods.

Jasper lets out a low, deep breath. “I’m sorry, Monty,” he says, voice cracking. “I just… I just want this place to be safe. I think it is.”

“I’m with Jasper,” Fox chimes in, tilting her chin up when the rest of the group turn to look at her. She’s not normally one to participate in conversations like this, so hearing her speak at all is somewhat of a shock. “I think it’s safe here. I think you’re all just too used to being paranoid.” She glances around the group, wide-eyed, and when she speaks again, there’s a note of terror in her voice. “I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Okay, everyone needs to calm down,” Bellamy says, stepping in to be the voice of reason. “Fox, no one is suggesting that we leave Mount Weather. Jasper, we want it to be safe here just as much as you do. But I think it’s a good idea for us all to be a little cautious. We got this far by trusting our instincts, right? So if some of us are feeling a little wary about this place, then that’s not something that we should ignore.”

Clarke feels a surge of gratitude in her chest for Bellamy Blake.

“Exactly,” she agrees, nodding perhaps a little too vigorously. “It can’t hurt to be cautious.”

“So what do you think we should do?” Raven asks.

“Stay on your guard,” Clarke says. “If you see anything that seems suspicious, tell the group. I’m not saying that we’ll find anything,” she adds for Jasper’s benefit, because he’s still looking just the slightest bit mutinous, “but at least if there is something going on here, we’ll be ready for it.”

“You guys are crazy,” Jasper mutters.

“Careful,” Monty corrects. “We’re careful.”

He stifles a yawn after he finishes speaking, and Miller grins. “And exhausted,” he adds. “I think maybe that nap is a good idea.”

Clarke doesn’t like the idea of letting herself be vulnerable here. She has visions of being caught unawares while she’s sleeping, of someone creeping up on her and slitting her throat. But she can’t deny that Miller is right. She’s already fighting back a yawn of her own, and she can see from the others’ faces that they’re tired as well. They need to rest if they’re going to stay vigilant.

“Right,” she says. “Yes. Sleep. Everybody should get some sleep.”

She takes the bed closest to the door, rationalising that whoever comes in will have to go through her first before they get to any of her friends. The beds are only single ones, but Raven and Wick still slide into one together. After a moment’s hesitation, so do Monty and Miller. There are no whispered conversations or murmurs once they’ve turned out the lights. Like Miller said, everyone is exhausted, and they fall asleep almost as soon as their heads hit the pillow.

Clarke sleeps fitfully. Her dreams are filled with sinister, shadowy figures that threaten her and her friends. One by one, her friends vanish, dispatched by faceless enemies who laugh maniacally at Clarke’s attempts to stop them. She sees Lexa, her face bloodied and her clothes torn, and when Clarke asks her what’s happened she just gets a sad smile.

“I warned you about the mountain,” Lexa tells her, and then Clarke jolts awake, sweat-drenched and panting.

It takes her a moment to adjust to her surroundings, and when she realises where she is, it’s dread that she feels, not relief. Clarke has never put much stock in dreams, has never been the kind of person who thought that her subconscious was trying to convey messages to her while she slept, but something just doesn’t feel right. She slips out from beneath her covers and drags a hand through her hair, noting that her hands are shaking.

She pads through the dormitory towards the closets and rifles through them, finally coming up with a pair of grey jeans that look like they should fit her, a dark ribbed sweatshirt and a pair of thick woollen socks. Then she heads into the bathroom, a room that’s about the same size as the dormitory, with three cubicles containing toilets and sinks and then another six with showers. There’s a cabinet in one corner that Clarke finds stocked with toothbrushes, toothpaste, towels. She takes a towel from the top shelf and shuts herself into one of the cubicles.

The feeling of the hot water on her back is blissful. Clarke was always one for quick showers, but the moment that the spray hits her skin, she thinks that she could happily stay there forever. She wets her hair and washes it with the strawberry scented shampoo that someone’s left behind. The artificial scent would have been cloying in the past, too much sweetness, not enough substance. Now, Clarke inhales it like it’s a drug. She lathers, rinses, repeats. She watches the suds go down the drain with the fascination of a small child seeing something for the very first time, and when her hair is slick and strawberry scented, she uncaps the bottle of body wash that stands beside the shampoo and starts to scrub the grime from her body.

It takes longer than Clarke expects to get herself clean, but at last, the water runs clear. Steam clogs the little cubicle, and through that she can see her skin, scrubbed pink and raw. For the first time in months there’s no dirt beneath her nails. She opens the cubicle door, reaches for her towel and then steps out into the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief.

Towel wrapped snugly around her body, she brushes her teeth with a fresh toothbrush from the cabinet. She squeezes as much of the water out of her hair as she can and then braids it back. She dresses herself in the clothes that she took from the closet, pleasantly surprised to find that they’re almost her size. The jeans are perfect, and the top is just a little too snug, but that’s fine. She discards her underwear, bra included. Now that she’s clean, she realises how filthy they are.

When she looks at herself in the mirror, she sees a girl that she doesn’t recognise. Pink-cheeked, bright-eyed, dressed in clean clothes for the first time in months. She bundles her towel up and tosses it in a laundry basket by the door, and then she lets herself back into the dormitory, where the rest of her friends are still sleeping.

As she pads down the row of beds towards her own, though, Clarke notices that something is wrong. One of the beds has its covers thrown back, pillow tossed haphazardly aside, but the indent of a body is still clearly visible in the mattress. Clarke frowns, looks around the room, but aside from the others asleep in their beds, there’s no one to be found. Worse, it looks like whoever left this bed didn’t do it by choice. Trying to quell the panic rising in her chest, she walks the row of beds, checking who’s accounted for.

“Wake up,” she cries out whn she reaches the end of the room. “Wake up, wake _up_ , Fox is gone!”

Heads emerge from beneath blankets, sleep-ruffled and bleary-eyed. Bellamy’s the first to realise what Clarke is saying and gets to his feet, stumbling a little, but already reaching for his weapons. Octavia is next, and then one by one everyone else, except Jasper, who looks at Clarke with irritation on his face.

“Calm down, she’s probably just gone to the bathroom.”

“I was just in there,” Clarke snaps, anger sparking at Jasper’s insistence on remaining blind to the fact that this place is dangerous, even now the one of their group is missing. “She’s not in the bathroom and she’s not in her bed, so do you really want to keep telling me that this place is safe, Jasper? Come on. Convince me.”

She knows that she’s being hysterical, but she can’t help herself. Looking at Fox’s bed, Clarke is convinced that there was a struggle. Someone dragged her out of here against her will, Clarke is sure of it. Even if it wasn’t for the messy bed, Clarke knows that no matter how safe Fox believed that she was at Mount Weather, she wouldn’t have wandered off without telling someone. Not after everything their group has been through. Someone has taken her.

“She has to be somewhere,” Bellamy says, ever the voice of reason. “Come on, we’ll go look for her. We’ll find her, Clarke, I promise.”

He makes for the door, walking with a purpose that eases Clarke’s nerves just a little. At least, until Bellamy tries the doorknob and the door doesn’t open. From behind Bellamy, Clarke sees his shoulder tense. He tries the doorknob again, rattling it, and then turns around, pale-faced.

“Bell?” Octavia says.

“They locked us in.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lexa's group infiltrate Mount Weather and Clarke and Lexa are reunited at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like we're coming up to the end of this fic. I figure I've got about two more chapters left after this one, and then maybe an epilogue to see where everything ends up. Thanks so much to everyone who's read/commented/left kudos, and I hope you stick around for the conclusion! :)

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend._

It’s an old adage, one that Lexa heard many times Before, but now that the world has ended and enemies are everywhere, it actually means something. Murphy’s revelation about Mount Weather turns out to be exactly what they needed to unite Nia’s people and her own group at Camp Polis. Nia’s group have lost people to the mountain too, and when they learn what’s been going on behind closed doors, they have a common cause to rally behind.

Mount Weather is the enemy, and with the inflated numbers in her army after the country club fight, Lexa fully intends to take them down and rescue Clarke and her friends and anyone else held captive inside the mountain.

They wait just long enough for everyone to recover from the fight at the club. Lexa hates that they have to wait at all — her skin is crawling, her hands moving constantly with nervous energy, and she wants nothing more than to march single-handedly to Mount Weather and mow down anyone in her path. It’s a foolish want, though, and if there’s to be any chance of saving the prisoners, she knows that they need to be at least somewhat rested. They have a quick meal to bolster their strength, weapons are handed out to those who have lost theirs or had none to begin with, and then at last, they set off for Mount Weather. They leave behind the wounded, the young, and Roan and his guards. Lexa will deal with him when all of this is over.

The journey is a blur. Lexa’s mind is a jumble of anxious thoughts, flashes and visions of Clarke and her people strung up on meat hooks and flayed down to the bone. After those come the flashes of the people that Lexa herself sent to the mountain and their bloody, grisly deaths, and she has to shake her head like she’s trying to get water out of her ears. Echo’s face swims in her mind, and Lexa unconsciously grips her knife tighter, a wordless promise to avenge her death.

To avenge all of their deaths.

When they’ve almost reached the mountain, Lexa calls the group to a halt and motions for Anya, Lincoln, Nyko and Indra to join her. She supposes that if this were a real war, one like Before, they would be her generals or something like that. They form a half-circle around her, expectant, waiting.

“They’re not going to open the doors if they see an army outside,” Lexa says. “I’ve got a plan for how to get inside, but the rest of you are going to have to hold back at first.”

Anya’s already shaking her head. “No way you’re going in there alone,” she says fiercely. “Take me. One more person isn’t going to seem like much more of a threat.”

For a moment, Lexa considers arguing with her, but they don’t have the time. Getting inside as quickly as possible is the priority, so she just nods and tells them the plan that she’s formulated on their journey. It’s risky — it relies on their weapons not being taken away from them immediately, on the people who open the door being unarmed. Still, it’s the only plan they’ve got.

“Lincoln, I want you behind us,” Lexa says. “Far enough back that they won’t be able to see you, but close enough that you can help if we’re in trouble. Indra, Nyko, you’re staying here with everyone else. Once we’re inside the mountain, Lincoln will come and get you. Everyone understand?” Nods. “Good. Anya, take your hair down. We have to look as vulnerable as possible.”

The Anya and Lexa who limp up to the door to Mount Weather a few minutes later hardly resemble the Anya and Lexa who have spent the past few hours marching through the woods. Anya’s shaken down her braids and dragged twigs and leaves through her hair, giving her the impression of being a woodland princess. She’s smeared dirt across her cheeks and she’s clutching her side, wincing with imaginary pain. Lexa’s left her braids in, but tugged at them to make them dishevelled and messy, and she’s ripped her shirt here and there to complete the effect. The overall impression is one of two scared, lost young girls who have been through hell.

Lexa’s banking on the people in Mount Weather believing the ruse.

She limps to the intercom set into the wall, takes a deep breath, and looks over her shoulder to Anya for reassurance. This is it. The moment of truth. She looks up at the camera set into the intercom and then presses down hard on the button for the microphone and leans in, speaking in the frightened, panicked tones of a girl who sounds nothing like the real Lexa.

“Hello? Is anyone in there? We need help, please.”

She releases the button and waits, heart thudding. And waits. And waits.

“Try again,” Anya urges. “It’s late, they’re probably sleeping.”

Lexa presses down on the button again, upping the ante with her panicked tone. “Hello?” she gasps out. “ _Please_. Please, if anyone is in there, we need help. My sister is wounded. Please, help us.”

There’s another pregnant, awful pause, and then static crackles over the intercom and a groggy-sounding voice issues from the speaker.

“Wounded by one of the dead?”

“No, not the dead,” Lexa replies. She doesn’t have to fake the relief flooding her voice — if no one had answered the intercom, she doesn’t know how they would have got inside. “We were trying to fish for food and she slipped and got a gash from a rock. Please, can you help us?”

“How many in your group?”

“There’s just two of us. Me and my sister. Please hurry!”

“Hang tight, we’re on our way.”

Lexa turns her back on the intercom, allowing herself a brief smile at Anya now that her face is out of sight of the camera. She goes to Anya’s side and props her up, acting the part of the concerned younger sister trying to help out her sibling, and then they wait. After what seems like a lifetime, there’s a loud whirring noise and the doors slowly slide back. There are only two people inside, dressed in hazmat suits.

The suits might be a problem, Lexa reflects, but it’s only a minor setback.

“Thank God,” she says, starting to stumble towards the door with Anya leaning heavily against her. “Please, she needs medical attention, can you take her?”

One of the suited men has his hands out already, reaching out to help Anya inside. Lexa waits until he’s almost touching her and then she drops the caring little sister act, shoving Anya so hard at him that he stumbles. Anya’s ready for the shock. Dropping her hands from her imaginary wound, she reaches for the knife tucked into her belt and in two quick movements, she unsheathes it and plunges it into the hazmat suit. It takes some effort, but she gets it inside the suit, and by the looks of things, manages to plunge the blade into the man’s jugular.

Meanwhile, before his companion can react, Lexa launches herself at him and wrenches the helmet from his suit. The man inside is middle-aged, with wide and terrified brown eyes and greying brown hair. He holds his hands up as Lexa brings her knife to his exposed throat, panicked puffs of breath escaping his lips.

“Please,” he says, “we were going to help you.”

“We don’t want your kind of help,” Lexa whispers, conscious that there might be others lurking around the corner. “Where do you keep the prisoners?”

“We don’t have any prisoners! We’re a safe zone! We look after the people who come here!”

Lexa narrows her eyes at him, pressing her blade closer to his skin. “Alright. Where’s the meat?”

Understanding clouds the man’s gaze, and he at least has the decency to look ashamed.

“We were just doing what we had to do to survive,” the man says, speaking all in a rush so he trips over his words. Tears are gathering in his eyes. “You can’t possibly understand, the pantries were supposed to be stocked when we went underground—”

Lexa punches him once, hard. “I’m not interested in your justifications. Where are you keeping them?”

“Dormitory,” the man says, defeated. “One of the old ones, down by the turbine room.”

“Good. You’re going to take us there.”

Lexa hauls him to his feet, keeping a tight grip on his shoulder and her knife pressed to his throat just in case he gets any thoughts about escaping. She turns to Anya, who has dispatched her victim with efficiency. She’s standing over him now, wiping blood from her knife on her jeans. At Lexa’s raised brow, she leans out of the door and gives two sharp whistles, signalling to Lincoln that it’s time to fetch the rest of the troops. That done, Lexa and Anya settle against the wall to wait, Lexa still keeping a tight hold of her captive.

“Please,” he says again. He’s weeping openly now. “There are innocents here, people who don’t know anything about what they’re eating. They shouldn’t be punished for crimes they didn’t know they were committing.”

Yesterday, Lexa would have agreed with him. She would have said that there was no reason to take a human life unless it was absolutely necessary, and that they should spare anyone they could. But today, she’s a different person. She’s not the Lexa of Before, she’s not even the Lexa of a few days ago, who still believed that there was hope and people could be saved. She’s fuelled by rage and vengeance and she will tear down anyone that she encounters inside this mountain, because even if Lexa was the one who sent her people to the mountain, it was the people inside it who sealed their fate.

“Lexa, someone’s coming,” Anya says suddenly. Lexa’s captive sighs with relief, and she curses.

Of course. They may have only sent two people to greet them, but there must be others who were told to come and investigate if they didn’t return on time. There could be any number of armed men marching down the corridor towards them right now, ready to foil their plan before they’ve even really gotten inside. But then Lexa listens closely and hears only one set of footsteps, and when someone finally does round the corner, it’s a lone girl, young and tired-looking.

She stops short at the sight of Lexa, Anya and their captive, eyes going wide and mouth slackening.

“Lovejoy?” she says, frightened.

“Maya, get help,” Lexa’s captive gasps out. “We’re under attack, tell Mr Wallace—”

His warning is cut short by Lexa’s knife cleaving against his throat. Blood spurts from the cut, still more welling up from his throat and preventing him from saying anything else. The girl, Maya, lets out a horrified gasp and turns to run, but Anya grabs her before she can, clasping an arm around her neck in a chokehold. Maya scrabbles at Anya’s arm, helpless.

Lexa approaches her, aware that she must look like some sort of monster right now, with her hair in disarray, her clothes torn, ferocity in her eyes and Lovejoy’s still-warm blood splattered across her face. She doesn’t care.

“I don’t want to have to do that to you,” she says softly. “Tell me, where are you keeping the prisoners?”

“We don’t have any prisoners,” Maya sobs out, echoing Lovejoy’s earlier denial. But something’s different here — Lexa looks at the terror on Maya’s face and she genuinely thinks the girl is telling the truth. There’s one way to be sure, though.

“The meat, then. Where are you keeping that?”

“The pantry is on the lowest level, beside the kitchen,” Maya says. “Take whatever you want, but please don’t hurt any more of us, _please_.”

Lexa meets Anya’s eyes. “She doesn’t know about it, does she?” Anya says.

“I don’t think so.”

“So he was telling the truth. How many do you think have no idea about what’s really going on here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lexa says. “We need to rescue Clarke and her people and any others who they’ve got locked away in here.”

“Did you say Clarke?” Maya asks, still sounding terrified. Lexa narrows her eyes, leans in closer.

“Do you know her? Do you know where they’re keeping her and her people?”

“Yes, I can take you there,” Maya says, nodding frantically against Anya’s arm. “Please, just don’t hurt me and I’ll take you to them, I promise.”

“What about your leaders?” Anya demands, tightening her grip around Maya’s throat to show that she means business. “Can you take us to them, too?” At Lexa’s raised brow, she shrugs her shoulders as best she can without letting Maya go. “Cut off the head and the body dies with it. Once we find the leaders, we make them tell us who was in on the secret of where the meat was coming from. We kill the cannibals and save the innocents.”

“Cannibals?” Maya repeats. Her eyes, already wide with fear, grow wider. “No — no, we have stocks, we don’t eat _people_ —”

“What do you think happens to the people who come through your doors?” Lexa interrupts. There’s no time for coddling; she can hear her army approaching, and they have to get moving. “I bet there’s been a lot of people who passed through here, right? Who found the safe zone and then decided not to stay?” Maya swallows hard, nods. “Well, I doubt they had much choice in that decision.”

The footsteps come to a halt and Lincoln appears in the doorway, the rest of their people looming behind them. He takes in the scene before him, Lovejoy’s corpse still bleeding out on the ground at Lexa’s feet, Maya’s head caught in a chokehold by Anya, and he raises his eyebrows.

“Did I miss something?”

“We’ve got a way in,” Lexa says, inclining her head towards Maya. She braces herself for what she knows is going to be an unpopular decision. “I want most of our people to stay out here.” She thinks for a moment. “If we’re not back in an hour, they’ll enter the mountain. For now, I just want you and Anya and a few of your best fighters. Indra and Nyko will stay out here with everyone else and be ready to attack if they don’t hear from us within an hour’s time. Got that?”

Indra and Nyko, standing a few feet behind Lincoln, nod their assent. There are murmurs of agreement among the troops, and then one of disagreement — Lexa sighs internally as Murphy fights his way to the front of the group.

If Lexa had had her way, he would be back at Camp Polis. She still doesn’t trust him or his trigger-happy nature. But he had insisted, and there hadn’t been time to convince him otherwise or the numbers to restrain and guard him, so here he stands before her, already fighting her orders.

“Those are _my_ people in there,” he says. “If you think that I’m not fighting to free them, you’re crazy.”

“ _Your_ people abandoned you at the daycare,” Lexa reminds him, but Murphy’s expression doesn’t change.

“They were right to,” he says stubbornly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to fight for them now.”

“We don’t have time to argue with him, Lexa,” Anya says. “If they sent this girl to look for Lovejoy, someone’s going to come looking for her before long. We have to move.”

“Fine. Murphy, you’re in. Don’t make me regret this,” Lexa warns him. She looks back at Maya. “Take us to Clarke and the others.”

Abandoning Lovejoy’s body in the corridor, the group that Lexa has chosen start to move inside the mountain. She and Anya lead the way, with Maya giving instructions on where to go. Her voice has turned hollow and broken, and Lexa suspects that her revelation has shattered something inside of the girl. In a strange way, she feels sorry for her. Maya was naive and gullible, not malicious. She didn’t know what her leaders were doing.

Lexa imagines having been party to such horrors without her knowledge, and the thought sends shivers down her spine. She resolves to spare Maya, if she can, and any others who didn’t know what they were doing. If there’s even the slightest indication that they were aware of what was happening here, though, Lexa plans to kill them.

She used to think otherwise, but some people just don’t deserve a second chance.

Maya warns them to stop when they get to the beginning of another corridor, smaller and with lower-ceilings than the others that she’s taken them down.

“All of you won’t fit down here. Not all at once. You’ll jam up the corridor. You should just take a few.”

Lexa narrows her eyes, trying to discern if Maya is leading them into a trap. Is she planning on leading them to where they keep their fighters, have them catch them off-guard and then decimate Lexa’s people, one by one? But one look at Maya’s face tells her that deception and trickery is the last thing on her mind. Like her tone before, her face is broken.

She signals for Lincoln and Murphy, because she thinks that familiar faces will set Clarke’s group at ease. Anya stays back with the rest of the troops, relinquishing Maya. It says something about her that Maya doesn’t run for help. She just leads them down the corridor towards a door. She tries to open it, a frown pulling at her lips when it doesn’t immediately yield.

“What is it?” Lexa asks, suspicious.

“It — it’s locked. It wasn’t when I left,” Maya says. “I don’t know why…” She trails off, biting down hard on her lip.

“Keeping them caged inside so they can pick them off one by one,” Lincoln mutters from behind Lexa, voice filled with disgust.

“Do you have a key?” Lexa demands. Maya shakes her head, visibly panicked, probably thinking about all the ways that Lexa and her group could hurt her for failing them. But Lexa’s not thinking about that. She turns to Lincoln. “Can you get it open?”

He nods and then disappears down the corridor, returning with some of the bulkier men from the group. Together, they take turns taking running jumps at the door. With each impact, the rattle of the hinges sounds weaker, until finally the door blasts inwards with a loud bang. Lexa immediately moves forward and through the empty doorway, scanning the room inside for Clarke.

She sees a low room, with beds lining the walls, and members of Clarke’s group standing beside each one. There’s Bellamy, standing with his arms crossed. Octavia, standing in a fighting stance, one that immediately loosens up when Lincoln steps into the room behind Lexa. Finn, bizarrely missing an arm, Monty and Miller side by side, and the others scattered throughout the room. Lexa’s eyes find Clarke, standing in the centre of the room, cleaner than the last time Lexa saw her, and staring at her with wide, amazed eyes.

“Lexa?” Clarke breathes out.

“Clarke,” Lexa says at the same time, and then they’re stumbling towards each other like friends who haven’t seen each other in years, and Lexa’s throwing her arms around Clarke and breathing in the sweet, heady scent of strawberry shampoo.

The hug is all too brief. Clarke pulls away from Lexa before she can really enjoy it.

“They took Fox,” Clarke says, “we don’t know why, but she was here when we went to sleep and gone when we woke up. And they locked us in — wait, what is _she_ doing here?”

Her eyes have found Maya, who must have crept in behind Lincoln and Lexa. She’s standing by the door, looking a little shell-shocked, eyes drawn to one of the empty beds lined up against the walls. The covers on the bed are ruffled, but not in an easy way. They look like someone struggled against them.

“I didn’t know,” Maya says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Bellamy says, advancing on her. “Do you know why they took Fox?”

“They’re eating the survivors,” Murphy says, stepping into the room and raising a hand in a sort of half-hearted wave. The shock of seeing Murphy is lost in the shock of his statement — Clarke locks gazes with Lexa, raising a hand to her mouth.

“Is it true?”

“It’s true,” Lexa says grimly. “How long since you found out Fox was missing? There might still be time to save her.”

“About an hour,” Clarke says, then bites down hard on her lip. “But there are a hundred people in this mountain, how are we supposed to get Fox and get out?”

“We brought people,” Lexa promises, then turns back to Maya. “Come on. You said you’d take us to your leaders. They’ll know where Fox is.”

They start to move out, and somehow Lexa’s hand has found Clarke’s and is gripping it tightly. She tells herself that it’s just for comfort, that Clarke has been through a lot and just received some shocking and horrifying information, but really, it’s for her. Until she saw Clarke’s face, she’d thought for sure that they would get here and find her strung up on a meat hook.

As they move slowly along the corridor back towards Lexa’s army, she thinks that she hears one of Clarke’s friend speak, defeated, dejected.

“I thought it was safe here.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke and Lexa fight against the people of Mount Weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains a major character death and a lot of violence, so be prepared.

Clarke’s head is spinning.

In the space of a few hours, she’s gone from thinking that they were finally safe to finding Fox missing, having Jasper try and persuade them that Mount Weather was still the place that they should be, discovering that they were locked inside their room, to having the door to their room kicked in by Lincoln. Murphy has reappeared without explanation. And now Lexa is marching them through the corridors of Mount Weather with the intention of finding Dante Wallace and anyone else who might have helped him, and killing them.

And there’s the cannibalism thing, as well. Just the thought of that makes Clarke’s stomach turn.

Her hand is clasped tightly in Lexa’s as they move through the corridors, a gesture of comfort, though Clarke’s not sure which of them reached for the other first. It’s not an ideal position in if they should be attacked, but Maya told them that it’s the middle of the night, so there’s not likely to be anyone wandering the halls. Still, Clarke keeps her free hand resting on her belt, ready to reach for her knife if anyone should appear.

She’s immensely grateful that Cage and Dr. Tsing didn’t take their weapons when they arrived. She supposes that they thought locking them in their dormitory was security enough — but then, they didn’t count on Lexa.

“Thank you,” Clarke murmurs as they round a corner, one that Maya says will take them to Wallace’s quarters. Lexa gives her a sidelong glance and a small smile.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“No, I do,” Clarke insists in a low voice. Lexa arches a brow at her. “You warned me more than once about the mountain, and I should have listened. If it wasn’t for you…”

Lexa squeezes her hand. “Forget about it, Clarke. Let’s just focus on taking these bastards down, okay?”

Clarke nods, though she still intends to thank Lexa properly for this when they make it out of the mountain.

_If_ , her mind whispers treacherously, but Clarke ignores it.

Maya leads them to a door at the end of the hallway. “This is it,” she says. “Dante Wallace’s room. He should be inside sleeping.”

“What about the others?” Lexa says. Maya shrinks back from her, clearly frightened. Clarke wonders what happened between them before they burst into the dormitory to make Maya so afraid. She thinks back to her own first meeting with Lexa, the cool metal of her blade pressing against Clarke’s throat, and then she doesn’t have to wonder so much anymore.

“What others?” Maya says.

“The higher-ups,” Lexa snaps back. “The leaders, the people who run this place. Wallace can’t do it all by himself, so where are they? Who are they?”

“Cage,” Maya says after a moment. “Wallace’s son. And Dr. Tsing. Sergeant Lovejoy,” she pauses, voice faltering on that last one, before rattling off a list of about ten more names. “They’ll all be in their own rooms, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Do you know where their rooms are?” Lexa’s second, Anya, sidles up behind her and Maya shrinks back even further.

“No,” she says, petrified. “I don’t know everyone’s rooms, only Mr Wallace’s because I sometimes bring people here to meet with him—”

“Leave her alone,” Jasper says suddenly, elbowing his way forward to glare at Lexa and Anya.

He’s soft on Maya, Clarke knows. She could see as much during their tour of Mount Weather. But she can hardly blame Anya and Lexa for their questioning, even if it is affecting Maya so strongly. If they’re going to find Fox, they need to know where the people who run this place are. Killing Wallace isn’t enough.

“Wallace will know,” Lexa says after a moment. She’s eyeing Jasper and the way he’s squared his shoulders, ready to step in and protect Maya if he needs to. She looks like she approves. “Come on. Weapons at the ready, but no one touches him until he talks. And then he’s mine.”

It’s Lexa who opens the door, relinquishing Clarke’s hand to do it. Clarke follows immediately behind her, knife at the ready. The room inside is dark, but only for a moment. Dante Wallace is a light sleeper; the noise of footsteps wakens him immediately and he shoots up in bed, hand reaching out for his bedside lamp.

Sitting up in flannel pajamas, he looks elderly and helpless; Clarke feels a momentary pang of sympathy, but then she thinks of Fox, waiting somewhere in this mountain to become someone’s dinner, and the moment passes. She follows close on Lexa’s heels as she marches towards the bed, grips Wallace by the neck of his shirt and presses her knife snugly against his throat.

“Mr Wallace,” Lexa says, her voice almost a purr. “We’d like some information from you, if you don’t mind. Clarke?”

“Where did your people take Fox?” Clarke demands. Her eyes meet the old man’s and he looks back at her, steady, not even blinking. He doesn’t seem frightened by the knife at his throat. If anything, he seems resigned, like he knew that this day would eventually come.

“Your friend with the long hair and the big eyes,” Wallace says, voice reedy and low with sleep. “If she’s been taken from the dormitory, then she’s already dead.”

Clarke’s blood turns to ice. Lexa allows her knife to slip a bit, not enough to seriously injure Wallace, but enough to show him that she means business.

“Where have they taken her?” she says. Clarke has never heard anyone sound so dangerous.

“There’s a meat freezer just off the kitchens. Beside the pantry. You’ll find her there, if you really want to, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” Wallace replies. “Like I said, if they took her, she’ll be dead already. They don’t waste time, not if they don’t have to.”

“‘They’,” Clarke repeats, “you keep saying ‘they’. These are your people. Don’t you mean ‘we’?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Wallace says. “I don’t condone what they’re doing.”

“But you haven’t tried to stop it, either,” Lexa growls. “You’ve just stood by while they slaughtered innocent people who were just trying to survive. Advertising this place as a safe zone? Letting people risk their lives to get here, and then killing them as soon as they think they’re safe? It’s disgusting. _You’re_ disgusting.”

“I’m surviving,” Wallace responds. “If I tried to stop them, they’d put me on the menu instead.”

“Coward,” Lexa says, and moves to slash her knife across his throat in a fit of rage.

Before she can, there’s the sound of a glass breaking. Clarke turns, and in the doorway sees Cage, standing over the shattered remains of a wine glass. He’s staring wide-eyed at his father and his captors. Time seems to slow down all of a sudden, and then Cage is running, screaming at the top of his lungs for someone to raise the alarm, that there are intruders in the mountain.

Clarke curses. They’re going to have to move fast.

“We need to get to that pantry,” she tells Lexa, tugging on her sleeve. “If there’s even a chance that Fox is still alive—”

“Go,” Lexa says, still keeping her eyes fixed on Wallace. “Take your people. Maya will take you to the pantry. Our army should be coming inside right about now, anyway. We can hold them off until you get back to help.”

Clarke nods and then takes off running, shouting for her friends to follow. Maya runs by her side, telling her where to turn. It’s not like sneaking through the corridors before. They make no pretense of trying to be quiet, and thanks to Cage, doors open all along the hallway as they run. They’re lucky, though; with Maya by their side, and the fact that some of the residents of Mount Weather recognise them from their earlier tour, no one tries to stop them. They think that they’re just frightened, fleeing from the intruders.

The kitchen is dimly lit and entirely empty. Once they’re inside, Maya points out two doors, one that leads to the pantry and another stainless steel one that leads to the freezer. Even with the door closed, Clarke can feel the chill coming off of it. Fear knots in her stomach. No one could survive in that temperature for long. How long since Fox was taken, now? Hours have passed since they found her missing, and Clarke has no idea if they took her as soon as they all fell asleep, or just before she woke up.

She wants time to build up her courage before she has to open that door and face whatever horrors lie inside, but there’s no time. She swallows hard and pulls back the door, and a puff of cold air escapes into the kitchen.

Shivering, Clarke steps inside, the others hot on her heels. Like the kitchen, there’s barely any light in here. Clarke can see packages of meat wrapped in clingfilm on shelves near the door, but past that, it’s just darkness. She moves forwards, arms outstretched in front of her. Someone is fumbling behind her for a lightswitch. There’s a click as they find it, and then all Clarke hears is the sound of her own screaming.

Inches from her outstretched hands, strung up on meat hooks, are bodies with pieces hacked off here and there. Clarke’s eyes are drawn to only one, though — a girl with long hair and wide eyes, her eyelashes crusted with ice from the freezing temperatures. Her body is still intact, but it’s clear from the horizontal slash across her throat that she’s dead. Clarke’s fingers are almost close enough to brush against her pale skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Bellamy whispers behind her.

Someone else is vomiting.

“We need to get the _hell_ out of here,” Miller declares, and then there are hands on Clarke’s shoulders, and somehow she manages to stop screaming.

“Let’s go, Clarke,” Raven murmurs in her ear, “come on. Let’s go. Fox is gone.”

They back out of the freezer, and Clarke is still shivering, but she doesn’t know if it’s from the cold or from the nightmare inside of it. She’s vaguely aware of Bellamy wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug, of Harper and Monroe crying, of Maya muttering over and over to herself that she didn’t know.

A lifetime might pass, or it might only be seconds, but noises sound in the hallway off the kitchen and Clarke suddenly remembers that Lexa needs their help.

“We have to help Lexa and the others,” she says tonelessly.

“Clarke, if you need to take a minute—” Finn starts, but Clarke cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head.

“We need to help them,” she repeats, reaching for her knife and heading for the door. “Come on. They’re going to pay for what they did to her.”

“Damn right,” Octavia breathes, reaching for her sword.

When they emerge from the kitchen, they find the hallway packed with people sparring with each other. Clarke recognises some of them as Lexa’s people, and others as faces that she saw during their tour earlier. The Mount Weather residents are easy to pick out, all clean and well fed, men with shaven faces and women with neatly groomed hair and eyebrows, dressed in their nightwear. Unprepared for an attack. Clarke focuses on them while they fight their way back the way they came, and trusts her friends to do the same.

When they reach Wallace’s room, it’s a mess of bodies. Wallace himself lies prone on his bed, bleeding from a wound to his shoulder. He’s not dead yet, but his eyelids are fluttering and his skin is paper white, and Clarke doubts it will be long before he succumbs to his injuries. She scans the room for Lexa, finds her fighting with a pajama-clad Cage, who’s proving surprisingly adept at holding his own. Clarke advances on them and Lexa’s eyes meet hers while she ducks a blow from Cage.

“Fox?” Lexa calls out, and Clarke shakes her head. New fury crosses Lexa’s face and she slashes out at Cage with her knife, managing to catch him on the arm. He gives a cry of pain, and while he’s distracted, Clarke takes the opportunity to plunge her own knife into his back. He splutters as blood wells up in his mouth and then sinks to his knees.

There’s no time to rest after Cage’s death. Lexa vaults over his body and grabs Clarke by the arm, pulling her back into the corridor, where the chaos is still ongoing. The people of Mount Weather just keep on coming, clearly desperate, and though some of them are merely fighting on instinct, others have been trained for moments like this. Like any survivors in this messed up world that they inhabit now, they’re not willing to go down without a fight.

Clarke gets a few gashes to the upper arm from a woman in a plaid nightgown, who is yelling fiercely about their right to survive. Clarke kicks her away, but it’s Lexa who makes the kill, grabbing the woman by her ponytail and plunging her knife into her side.

Dr. Tsing appears out of the crowd, not clad in pajamas like the rest, but in her white medical coat. She grips onto Clarke’s shirt, eyes frenzied and wild.

“You’re making a mistake,” she says. “Destroying this place, destroying these people, it’s a _mistake_. You’re a medic — you’re valuable — we would have _kept_ you—”

Rage blooms in Clarke’s chest and she raises her leg, kicking Dr. Tsing to the ground and standing on her chest with her boot. The doctor looks up at her, gaze still frenzied, but also filled with fear and hatred.

“You would have _kept_ me?” Clarke repeats. “So you would have murdered and eaten my friends, but you would have _kept_ me because I’m valuable? Is that supposed to make me want to spare you?”

“Resources are limited,” the doctor says, babbling now, “we can’t just take in anyone who manages to find us, we need to be selective if we want to survive, and turning people out just means that they’ll die anyway _so why shouldn’t we find a purpose for them_ —”

Bile rises in Clarke’s throat. She’s heard enough. She takes Dr. Tsing out with a slash to the throat and then steps off of her body and throws herself back into the fray. She remembers Maya telling them that there were only a hundred people in Mount Weather, but the tide just keeps on coming. It’s only when Clarke hears Jasper yell out that she realises these aren’t just people from Mount Weather that they’re fighting.

“Lurkers!” Jasper shouts. “There’s a herd of lurkers jamming up the corridor!”

He’s right. Most of the pajama-clad residents of Mount Weather have fallen now, but the bodies that keep on coming aren’t live ones. A few feet away from Clarke, Lexa whirls on one of her troops — Clarke thinks his name is Nyko — braids flying and eyes flashing.

“You didn’t close the door?” she demands. Nyko looks panicked.

“We did!” he says. “I made sure of it myself!”

“One of them must have opened it when Cage raised the alarm,” Clarke says, gripping Lexa’s wrist to get her attention. “They knew they couldn’t fight us off alone, so they figured they’d take us down too.”

A furious snarl comes from deep in Lexa’s throat and she lunges at a lurker with her knife, taking it down with one quick stab to the skull. Clarke feels her rage. They’ve defeated Mount Weather. They should be safe. But now they’re trapped inside a maze of winding hallways with a herd of lurkers that looks like it numbers in the hundreds, and it’s common knowledge that the more lurkers you’re trapped with, the more your chances of survival lessen. Steeling herself, Clarke prepares to fight her way out.

She loses track of the amount of the dead that she takes down. It’s like being back in the clearing in the forest again, except there’s even more of them now, and Clarke can’t see or hear her friends to know how they’re doing. As she ducks to avoid the bite of a lurker, she thinks she sees Monroe lying on the ground, but she can’t be sure. When she plunges her knife into the skull of another, she’s almost certain that she sees Wick falling, a lurker attached to his neck, but she can’t let herself dwell on it.

The only way that she’s going to make it out of this alive is if she focuses on herself. Her friends can handle themselves, she knows that by now. So she stabs and slices and ducks and weaves until the tide of bodies starts to ease, and then she hears a shriek, and it’s Lexa, and Clarke’s heart stops beating.

She beats off two lurkers that are trying to corner her and follows the sound of Lexa’s voice, an endless mantra running through her head.

_Don’t let her be bitten don’t let her be bitten don’t let her be bitten._

Through the crowd, she sees Lexa kneeling on the ground, but it doesn’t look like there are any bites on her, at least not any that Clarke can see. She has her arms around Anya, cradling her head, and as Clarke gets closer she sees the bite on Anya’s neck. It’s large and gaping, blood pumping thickly from it, and Anya’s eyes are already starting to droop. The purple lines that signal infection are already starting to creep beneath the neckline of her shirt.

“No,” Lexa is saying, head shaking furiously. She’s surrounded by bodies, lurkers that she must have felled when Anya got bitten. Clarke thinks she can guess which one got Anya — it’s likely the one that’s been killed most brutally, head entirely severed from its body by Lexa’s knife. There are tears streaming from Lexa’s eyes. “Goddammit, Anya, you don’t fucking get to do this. Not now. Not after all of this, come on, Anya, come on.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. Lexa looks up at her and her tears quicken, and when she speaks, it comes out as a sob.

“She _can’t_ die.”

“She’s infected,” Clarke says, dropping to her knees beside her. “I’m sorry, Lexa, but she’s already gone.”

A wail wrenches itself from Lexa’s chest, followed by a long, shuddering sigh. She raises her knife above Anya’s head and holds it there, like she can’t quite bring herself to do what comes next. Clarke flashes back to Wells’s death — only a few days ago, but God, it feels like a lifetime. She remembers not knowing how to end his life, even though it was already ended. She closes her fingers around Lexa’s on the knife, and together, they bring it down into Anya’s skull, ending her pain.

Clarke would like to sit here for a minute, to help Lexa process her grief, but there’s still a war going on around them. She gets to her feet and holds out her hand to help Lexa up. It takes a moment, but she stands, wipes the tears from her eyes, and when she looks at Clarke it’s with renewed fury. Without another word, she launches herself back into the crowd and starts to take down more lurkers.

The fighting seems to last for hours. When it ends at last, they’re all bloody and sweating, clothes torn, weapons blunted. Clarke feels a hollow numbness in her stomach as she looks around at the bodies. Mostly lurkers, residents of Mount Weather, but there are familiar faces there that make tears well in her eyes.

Monroe, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, taken down by a lurker bite to the jugular and then disembowelled once she fell to the ground. Wick, bitten on the hip through his shirt. He’s still breathing when Clarke approaches him, ready to make it so he won’t rise again. He gives her a weak smile.

“Look after Raven for me,” he says, voice already thin and wavering. “And — and make it quick, Clarke, okay?”

She tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: killing Anya off was extremely un-fun and the first time I've ever felt guilty about writing character death into a fic. Yeesh, zombie AUs are tough.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dust settles after the battle of Mount Weather.

When the fighting is over and the last of the biters have been taken care of, Lexa feels a sharp tug of regret in her stomach. She wants the battle to continue, because if it’s over, then she has to face all that she’s lost. Once the fighting has ended, the moving on has to begin, and Lexa isn’t ready for that yet, not by a long shot.

But there are no more enemies to take care of, no more monsters to fight. All that remains in the corridors of Mount Weather are survivors, mostly Lexa’s people, and then Clarke’s, dotted here and there throughout the crowd. At a cursory glance, Lexa guesses that all of the residents of Mount Weather have fallen, save for Maya. The girl is huddled in a corner behind Jasper, still standing in a protective stance, ready to defend her against a threat that’s no longer there.

“Lexa?”

From behind her, Clarke’s fingers find the edge of Lexa’s sleeve. Her voice is soft and cautious, like she’s speaking to an animal who might attack. Belatedly, Lexa realises that she’s still breathing hard, still clutching her knife, ready to slice a throat. She lowers it to her side, tries to control her breathing, and then turns to meet Clarke’s gaze.

She’s a mess, blood splattered all over her body, her hair a tangled blonde mess around her face. There are streaks of tears marking her cheeks, but the look in her eyes is hopeful. Tinged with sadness, but hopeful.

Lincoln stumbles through the crowd of bodies towards Lexa, also looking worse for wear. There’s a long, jagged gash along his cheek, flowing with blood, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. His eyes alight on Anya’s body, a few feet away from where Lexa stands, and then his gaze flickers back up to meet Lexa’s. He grasps her in a tight hug, forcing Clarke to relinquish her hold on Lexa’s sleeve. There might be tears in his eyes when he pulls back, but he wipes at his eyes before Lexa can be sure.

“What now?” he asks, working to make his voice sound gruff. Lexa looks around her, at a loss, and then the exhaustion of the last few days rolls over her like a wave and she has to grab Lincoln’s arm to stay steady.

When was the last time that Lexa slept? She can’t remember. She’s been grabbing moments here and there when she could, but she can’t remember the last time she had a real, full night’s sleep. It hits her now all of a sudden, and she knows that she can’t face trudging back to Camp Polis in the dark, not yet. The journey just might kill her.

“We’ll spend the night here,” she says at last. “There’s plenty of beds. Spread the word, but first get some volunteers to drag out the bodies and burn them.” Lincoln starts to turn, but a word from Clarke stops him.

“There’s more bodies in the freezer.”

Lexa arches an eyebrow at her, but Clarke shakes her head, either unwilling or unable to elaborate. Lincoln moves off through the crowd, murmuring to people as he passes.

“I need to find somewhere to sleep,” Lexa says, dragging a hand through her bedraggled braids. Clarke nods, and then, hesitant, Lexa adds, “Do you…?”

She’s not sure what she’s asking for, but she doesn’t want to be alone right now. She wants someone to be there while she sleeps, to be ready to comfort her if the nightmares come, to talk to if sleep eludes her even despite her exhaustion. She wants Clarke, but the blonde girl is biting her lip, and even before she speaks, Lexa knows that her answer will be no.

“I need to speak to my people,” Clarke says. “Monroe and Wick—” She swallows hard, shaking her head again. “I need to talk to them before I do anything else. I’ll come and find you later.”

Then she’s gone, blonde head moving off through the crowd, leaving Lexa alone with her grief and her exhaustion. She doesn’t let the sting of the rejection show on her face. She goes to Maya, still shell-shocked and hiding behind Jasper, and asks her to give her directions to one of the private rooms. She tells Lexa where to go in a wavering voice, and then Lexa is off, leaving the coppery smell of blood and death behind her.

The room that Maya sends her to is homey, cosy, exactly the kind of room that the Lexa from Before would have loved. The walls are dark grey cement like everywhere else in the mountain, but the room is filled with colour even so. The bed is draped in masses of multi-coloured blankets, piled high with cushions and pillows. There are armchairs set along the wall, decorated in similarly bright colours. A desk dominates most of the room, covered in notebooks and papers.

Lexa goes to the desk, runs her fingers over the papers. They look like stories. Handwritten, scrawled in messy script, but with excitement. Whoever wrote these loved what they were doing. She thinks about picking one up and reading it, but the thought is unsettling, so she leaves them where they are and goes to the closet set into the wall instead.

Opening the closet, she finds neatly folded rows of t-shirts and jeans, all in dark, muted colours.

 _The unofficial uniform of the apocalypse,_ Lexa thinks wryly. But it’s not like she has a lot of options.

She shucks off her jacket and boots, peels her blood-soaked t-shirt from her body, wriggles out of her jeans, and selects a new outfit from the closet. She needs to wash herself, but for now, new clothes will do. Slipping out of her own sweat and blood-stained outfit has already made her feel like a new person.

The person who wore these clothes is dead, Lexa reflects. The woman who slept in that colourful bed, scrawled on those messy sheets of paper, sat and read in those armchairs. She’s dead, lying somewhere down in that corridor with blank eyes and a silent heart. What a waste.

Exhaustion getting worse with every minute, Lexa pushes the thoughts from her mind and peels back the covers on the bed. It’s more luxurious than the thin camper’s mattress she’s used to at Camp Polis. She sinks into the sheets and though she thinks it will take a while for her to fall asleep, she manages it almost immediately.

She doesn’t know how long she sleeps for, but when she wakes, she’s not alone. Clarke is sitting in one of the armchairs facing the bed, her legs tucked up underneath her and a pensive expression on her face. She smiles when she sees Lexa’s eyes open.

“Hey.”

Lexa struggles out from beneath the mass of blankets, blinking blearily. “Hey, yourself,” she says, feeling oddly vulnerable sitting in bed with Clarke in the room.

She hadn’t expected to see her. She thought that the rejection back in the corridor was Clarke’s way of letting her down gently, of saying that whatever attraction Lexa might have imagined between them was just that, a figment of her imagination. But she’s here now, showered, dressed in fresh clothes and with her blonde hair hanging in beachy waves around her face. She looks nothing like the girl Lexa fought side-by-side with just a few hours ago.

“It’s almost morning,” Clarke tells her. “Lincoln got some people together and they took care of the bodies. All of them. They’re probably still burning.” She says it all with the matter-of-fact tone of a news reporter, but Lexa knows that it has to be hard for her to say it at all. Some of her own people were among the dead, after all. “Maya got everyone set up with a bed, so they should all be sleeping right now. I thought that you’d want an update.”

So that’s why she’s here. To update Lexa on how things are going. Not because she wanted to see her.

“Thanks,” Lexa says, swinging her legs out from beneath the covers and taking the armchair beside Clarke’s. This makes it feel more like they’re on even ground.

At least, until Clarke reaches out and grasps Lexa’s hand in her own. Lexa wasn’t expecting that. She stares at their intertwined fingers, swallows hard, then looks up to meet Clarke’s eyes. There’s determination on her face, and something else that Lexa can’t quite figure out.

“I’m sorry about Anya,” Clarke says, and the sincerity in her voice is enough to make the tears that Lexa’s managed to hold back until now come springing to her eyes.

She hasn’t allowed herself to think about Anya’s death, not since she and Clarke plunged the knife into Anya’s skull. There was the fight to distract her, and then sleep, a blissful oblivion. She’d been so exhausted that her dreams hadn’t turned to nightmares. She’s not sure if she dreamed at all. But now, all Clarke has done is said Anya’s name, and all that Lexa can see is a minute by minute replay of her death, and she doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“It was my fault,” she says, hating herself for the sob that catches in her throat. “There were two biters going for me at the same time, and she came to help. If she’d just stayed where she was—”

“You can’t think like that,” Clarke says softly. Without letting go of Lexa’s hand, she slips from her armchair to kneel by Lexa’s side. “If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. It was chaos down there. And you’d be dead, too.” Lexa tries to protest, but Clarke cuts her off, speaking firmly. “No. You don’t get to beat yourself up about this, Lexa. I’m sorry that Anya died, I am, but she died protecting you. And I’m glad that you survived. I’m not sorry about that.” She squeezes Lexa’s hand. “Do you think Anya would want you to sit here, crying over her?”

Lexa blinks back her tears and reminds herself that she’s not the only one who lost someone. Clarke’s people died down there, too. Even before that, the thing that sent them to Mount Weather in the first place was Clarke’s best friend dying. She’s right. In this new, deadly world, people die every day. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. And Clarke may not have known Anya, but she’s got one thing right — the last thing that Anya would want is for Lexa to shut down, give into her grief. Lexa can almost hear her whispering in her ear, cursing at her for being so soft.

_A leader has to be strong, Lexa. Come on, brave face, don’t wuss out on me now. You think I died so you could fall apart instead of leading our people?_

Anya was a warrior, and she would want Lexa to be one, too.

“Thank you,” she says, returning Clarke’s squeeze of her hand with one of her own. “I’m sorry about your people, too. I wish we could have saved everyone.”

“We saved some,” Clarke reminds her. “That’s not nothing. And if it wasn’t for you…” She trails off, gives a long, shuddering breath. “What I saw in that freezer is going to haunt me forever, but the only reason that the rest of my friends didn’t end up in there is because of you. Don’t thank me. I’ll be thanking you every day for the rest of my life.”

They smile at each other, both still with tears in their eyes, both smarting over wounds that haven’t healed yet and probably won’t heal for a very long time. And then Lexa’s not quite sure how it happens, but one of them leans closer. Their noses brush. Lexa can feel Clarke’s breath on her face, can smell the scent of her. She brushes her lips against Clarke’s, just for a moment, and gets a barely audible gasp in return. Lexa’s eyes flicker up to meet Clarke’s, green boring into blue.

“Is this okay?” she asks, and Clarke nods, almost imperceptibly.

Lexa kisses her, hesitant at first. It’s been so long since she kissed anyone. She has a moment of panic — can you forget how to kiss someone, or is it like riding a bike? Then instinct takes over and Clarke’s mouth opens under hers, and Lexa loses the ability to question anything at all. All there is is Clarke, her chapped lips moving against Lexa’s, her hands reaching up to twine around Lexa’s neck, her soft gasp as Lexa leans forward to deepen their kiss.

Then Clarke is in the armchair with her, legs bracketing Lexa’s, arms still wrapped around her neck. With her new position, Clarke is the one in control. She bites softly on Lexa’s bottom lip and then starts to trail kisses from the corner of her mouth, across her jawline, down to the neckline of her borrowed shirt. Lexa rests her hands on Clarke’s waist, fingers playing uncertainly with the hem of her shirt, her skin burning where it makes contact with Clarke’s.

“Take it off,” Clarke murmurs, mouth still pressed against Lexa’s neck. Lexa’s hands still.

“Are you sure? It’s — it’s not too fast?”

“Everything is fast now,” Clarke says, pulling back from Lexa and wrenching the shirt over her head herself. Her skin is smooth, milky-white. She’s not wearing a bra. Lexa’s palms skim over her bare flesh, half-afraid to touch. Clarke tilts Lexa’s chin up with a finger, gives her a reassuring smile. “Hey. You said it yourself back at the daycare. There’s no time for taking things slow anymore. Do you want me?”

“Of course,” Lexa breathes, and then Clarke is kissing her again.

Somehow they manage to stumble from the armchair to the bed, shedding clothes along the way. By the time they tumble to the mattress, Clarke’s down to her underwear. Lexa’s still got her jeans on, but Clarke makes quick work of them, rolling them down Lexa’s legs and tossing them to the other side of the room. Then she’s on top of Lexa again, trailing hot kisses down her neck and collarbone and to the scalloped edge of her bra.

Her fingers are nimble as they move behind Lexa’s back to fiddle with the clasp, and then the bra is gone too, discarded on the floor like everything else. Pressed against the mattress, clad only in her underwear, Lexa’s surprised to find that she doesn’t feel vulnerable. There’s something about all of this that just feels right, like it’s supposed to be happening. Before, she was never the type of girl to just jump into bed with someone, but maybe Clarke is right.

There’s no time for taking things slow anymore, and even if there was, Lexa doesn’t think she would be able to control herself.

She brings Clarke’s mouth to hers again, kisses her long and hard, and then flips her over so that Clarke is the one pressed into the mattress. Lying naked against the purple sheets, blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo, she looks like an angel. Lexa allows herself a moment to look. Just a moment. It’s all she gets, because then Clarke is tugging her down again, impatient.

Lexa kisses Clarke once, then moves to her jawline, down across her collarbone, then further down past her breasts and to her navel. While Clarke watches, eyes heavy-lidded and hot with want, Lexa pushes her legs apart and settles between them.

Sex, it turns out, is a lot like kissing. It’s instinctual. Lexa hasn’t slept with anyone since the world changed, but she falls into old rhythms and patterns without missing a beat. It may have been a while, but her tongue remembers exactly how this is supposed to go, and judging from the way that Clarke fights to keep still and contain the tiny gasps that burst from her lips, she isn’t going to be complaining once Lexa is finished.

Clarke comes with a gasp, and then she’s threading her fingers through Lexa’s hair, still caught up in messy braids, tugging her up so that she can kiss her. An odd sense of pride rolls over Lexa as she takes in the sweat beading Clarke’s forehead, the wildness in her eyes. She likes that she’s the one who made Clarke look like this. She kisses her forcefully, like a victor claiming a prize, and doesn’t protest when Clarke flips them over and straddles her waist.

“Your turn,” she says, and then she’s moving down Lexa’s body and gently pushing her legs open, and then Lexa loses the ability to form coherent thoughts, because all she’s aware of is Clarke’s fingers and her tongue and just _her_. Just Clarke. Everywhere.

When she kisses Clarke afterwards, she tastes of salt and sweat. Spent, they curl up together against the mountain of pillows on the bed, though Clarke still chooses to pillow her head on Lexa’s chest instead. Lexa threads her fingers through Clarke’s hair, watching the blonde strands flutter over her skin. It’s peaceful. Calming.

Right now, in this moment, it’s easy to forget that outside this mountain, the world has ended.That Lexa’s best friend is dead. That just a few hours ago, these walls played host to a horrible bloodshed the likes of which she never would have imagined a few months ago. Right now, there’s only Lexa and Clarke, and the softness of their skin pressing against each other, of Clarke’s breath ghosting across Lexa’s stomach, of her fingers intertwined with Lexa’s free hand.

It’s perfect.

“We could stay here, you know.”

Clarke’s voice is so quite that Lexa thinks she might have imagined it. She stops stroking Clarke’s hair, tilts her chin up so she can look her in the eyes. There’s a hopefulness there.

“What do you mean?”

“Mount Weather was built to be sustainable,” Clarke says, tracing lazy circles on Lexa’s hip. “The doors are fortified, the pantry is stocked with tins and vegetables. There’s land to start a garden. There’s a generator for electricity, a good water supply. There’s more than enough beds for your people, and mine. We could stay here. Build something.”

Lexa opens her mouth, instictively ready to say no, that Camp Polis is waiting for them. But then she allows herself to think about it. Clarke is right, after all. This place was built to house hundreds of scientists as well as their families. And winter is coming — Camp Polis won’t be so comforting once the cold weather hits.

She presses a kiss to Clarke’s cheek. “Would you want that? All of us together?”

“We’ve both lost so many people,” Clarke says softly. “Don’t you think we should stick together now, if we can?”

Lexa answers her with a kiss. It says more than she ever could.


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months after the battle of Mount Weather, everyone is adjusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's a short one, but this is it, the very last chapter. Thanks so much to everyone who's read, commented, or left kudos on this little Clexa apocalypse fantasy of mine. It means the world and you're all amazing.
> 
> This is the end for this fic, but I've got a few more ideas in the works (including a Clexa paranormal investigator/podcaster fic that I'm VERY excited about) so I hope if you liked this one, you'll check those out when I post them ;)

Before Mount Weather, Clarke never thought that things could be peaceful again. She’d envisioned years of fighting off lurkers, trying to carve out a life for herself and her friends in different places every night, never able to relax or settle down or try to return to some semblance of normality. She’d imagined her end coming all too soon, gruesome and bloody and above all else, inevitable.

But things are different now, and Clarke is finally allowing herself to believe that things can be okay again.

It’s been three months since they arrived at Mount Weather and took it for themselves. Three months, give or take, in which Clarke’s group has grown stronger, bonded with Lexa’s people, and created a productive and harmonious society inside its the mountain. The walls at Mount Weather are strong. They haven’t had a breach since they got here, and although lurkers still shamble about in the woods around the mountain, they haven’t really had to worry about them in a long time.

Nia’s people, the ones who helped Lexa infiltrate Mount Weather, have taken over Camp Polis. There was too much bad blood between them for everyone to stay, and their leader — or their leader’s son, at least — was back there, anyway. They have a truce between them, a promise to help with supplies and medical equipment and to be there if either one of their group ever needs anything. It means that the mountain is less crowded, and knowing that they have allies outside its walls is a comfort, too.

Since moving in, they’ve put systems in place to make sure that the mountain can sustain them for years to come. They have a roster of people who take turns to go out hunting every few days or so. Some of the meat that they bring in is stored, the rest shared fairly amongst the group. They’ve planted a vegetable garden in an indoor greenhouse kitted out with all the right equipment. Monty and Raven have even managed to upgrade the water filtration system, make it so that if other groups of survivors do come across them, they can take them in without worrying about the water supply.

They have a home again, and it’s taken some getting used to, but Clarke is finally learning to let her guard down again. Everyone is.

“Clarke? What are you doing up here?”

Monty’s voice breaks Clarke out of her reverie. She’s sitting on the ground by the entrance to the mountain, the place where they first entered all those months ago. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, a book laying forgotten on her lap. She smiles as Monty approaches with a smile on his face, half-hesitant, like he’s afraid to disturb her.

“Waiting for the hunting party to get back,” she tells him. “I’m guessing you, too?”

He nods, drops into a sitting position beside her, draws his knees up to his chest. The party went out this morning at dawn, and it’s just creeping into the early afternoon now. They’ll be back soon. Clarke lists off the roster in her head — Lexa, Bellamy, Miller, Octavia, Lincoln. Five of them, experienced with weapons, good listeners, entirely capable of going on a hunting trip without getting into any danger. But there’s still that little voice at the back of her head. Clarke is learning to let her guard down, but she’s not gotten there, quite yet. Judging from the faint worry creasing Monty’s brow, neither has he.

“Jasper says I shouldn’t worry,” he admits to Clarke. “But it’s hard not to, you know? Even though they can handle themselves. All it takes is one wrong move.”

Clarke thinks of Anya, who Lexa has told her was one of her very best warriors, as well as her best friend. Yes, Monty’s right. All it takes is one wrong move for even the most experienced fighter to go down. If there’s one thing that she’s learned about this new world that they’re living in, the fate of who lives or dies is a fickle one.

“I get it,” she says, reaching out to squeeze Monty’s knee. “But they’ll be fine. They’ll be back before you know it. Another ten minutes, tops.” She glances back down the dark, empty corridor. “What are the others doing?”

For the first few weeks, more people would gather here and wait for the hunters to return. The numbers have slowly dropped off. Clarke’s the only one who always comes, now. The others, like Monty, come when someone they really care about is out there, but mostly the hunters are trusted to come back. There’s no need for so much vigilance, not any more.

“Harper and Finn are making lunch. Jasper’s in one of the private bedrooms with Maya — I didn’t risk looking in,” Monty says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Raven’s in the library and Murphy’s in the games room. Not too sure about Lexa’s crew.”

“Our crew,” Clarke reminds him, but he’s not paying attention. He’s got his head tilted to the side, listening closely to something outside the door, and then he’s getting to his feet and pressing the button for the intercom.

“About time!”

The heavy silver doors take an age to open, but at last they slide apart to reveal all five members of the hunting party, looking tired, but satisfied. Octavia, Lincoln and Bellamy are first inside, hauling between them a large cloth bag, bloodied and reeking of raw meat. They say a brief hello and then continue down the hallway with their catch, bickering good-naturedly among themselves about who’s responsible for it. Then Miller, a backpack slung over his back smelling fishier than usual. Monty’s in his arms before he’s even all the way inside, kissing him with enough force to send him reeling back a little bit. Once Miller recovers, they follow the others down the hall, hands intertwined.

Then Lexa steps in at last, closes the door with one swift push of the button. The dark eye make-up she still insists on wearing is streaked down her cheeks from exertion, her hair escaping from its trademark braids. She’s sweaty and exhausted, but looking at her, Clarke still swears that she’s never seen anything so beautiful.

She snakes an arm around Lexa’s waist and pulls her close, kissing her soundly, not caring about the sweat or the vague smell of trout coming from her bag. Lexa responds eagerly, hands coming up to twine around Clarke’s neck, hips bumping against Clarke’s as she presses their bodies closer together. Clarke bites softly on Lexa’s bottom lip before pulling away. Her thumb ghosts over Lexa’s cheekbone, her fingers tracing the edge of Lexa’s jaw.

“Welcome home.”


End file.
